Solve Me A Riddle, Molly Hooper
by Alice Foxworth
Summary: Sherlock goes missing, Molly solves riddles, Sherlock and Molly live in the forest, Molly falls in love (twice), they are discovered by Mr. Moriarty, John is back, there are riddle, codes, and a bomb! Hero!Molly. COMPLETE! Molly/Sherlock Thanks to all the wonderful followers/reviewers/supporters
1. Chapter 1

**Hello Readers!**

**Thank you so much for choosing Solve Me A Riddle, Molly Hooper. I appreciate the support.**

**Title: Solve Me A Riddle, Molly Hooper**

**Author: Alice Foxworth**

**Rating: K**

**Disclaimer: All rights belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the other wonderful people involved in the show BBC Sherlock, and of course, the genius behind the stories, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Molly often wondered what things would have been like if Sherlock had really died, and now more than ever. She didn't know if it would make any difference; she'd be just as lonely as she was now. People kept telling her to make a move: Sherlock was there, in her house, constantly, and she had the chance she had waited for for years. Fate, they said, had a funny way of making things in the universe more complicated than they had to be. It was just a matter of time (and more confusion) before she and Sherlock would have ended up together anyway.

Molly doubted it. She didn't care. She wouldn't care if Sherlock went and jumped off of Bart's again, without her help. Let's see if he really could get on without her. Oh, forget him! He's just a drugee without a joint. He's a grandma with an uncomfortable chair. He's absolutely a pain in the backside!

He never listens, he never considers the inconvenience he's caused Molly, because NO! He's Mr. Perfect and every girl falls at his feet to give him the attention he wants. Except he's not man enough to turn around and give them the attention they need. That was the main problem Molly had when she had followed those girls like a blind sheep in a thorny pasture. It had been painful. It had been bloody (mainly from the body parts she had procured for Sherlock). It had been absolute Hell, but Molly was finished.

It was about time she started standing up for herself. She was finished giving him what he wanted without anything in return. She was sick and tired of his bad-mouthing, his unwelcome deduction exercises, his silence, his talking, his bad attitude, his manipulative smile and eyes. She was done. And she was going to tell him. Now. And he would take it to the bank.

Molly shoved her key into the lock, not caring if it broke or not, Sherlock could make himself useful and fix it for her. Unfortunately, it didn't break; Sherlock was off the hook, the lucky son of a gun. She flung her coat on the coat rack beside Sherlock's lonely and odd looking windbreaker and made her way into the flat.

"Sherlock."

A pause, "Sherlock!"

Nothing. She rushed through the kitchen (empty), into the living room (empty as well), to her bedroom (bare as the day she moved in), and to his room. No one but her was in the flat. She was alone.

Sherlock is gone, she thought. Oh my god, Sherlock is gone! He's not supposed to leave the flat! What if there are still people out there who want to kill him? What if he needs my help? I'd better save - wait. He doesn't need me. He's just fine on his own. I'm fine to just sit, have a cuppa, read a book. He will be back in two hours.

Molly didn't read anything. She stared at the clock. The seconds drew out longer and longer, until she couldn't stand the silence. It really wasn't the same unless he was there. She decided to check one more time before going out to find him.

She stood in the living room, all rooms visible and in earshot, and shouted, "Sherlock!"

Just one more attempt. She whispered, "Sherlock?"

No answer came, save a ring from her mobile, a single ring, causing her to jump. She grabbed the phone and flipped it open. She held it up to her ear.

Hesitant, "Hello?"

"Hello, Miss Hooper." A disguised voice, male, deep, menacing. "How was your walk? Refreshing, I hope."

"Yes, who is this?" Her voice was shaking.

"No questions, please, Miss Hooper. You are a friend of Sherlock Holmes, are you not?"

"Well, I wouldn't say friend, but I know him."

"Are you his current guardian?"

"Yes, sir, why?"

"No questions, please. I have a present for you. But to get your present, you must find it."

"How?"

"No questions!" The man growled. Molly flinced, glad the man couldn't see her. Or could he? She glanced around quickly for cameras, but there were none in sight.

"I will give you a series of clues."

"Riddles?"

"Yes. Riddles, if you'd prefer. Each clue will come with the option of a hint, but know that if you have to use your little hint, the package will be harmed. Understood?"

Molly nodded.

"Understood, Miss Hooper?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I will give you one hour to solve the first clue."

Molly waited, but panic soon began to set it. She knew the package must be Sherlock. The kidnapper must know she was not good at word games. He wanted to hurt Sherlock. His intention was to cause pain.

When the man spoke, it was quieter and almost...scarier. "A man who lives on the tenth floor takes the elevator down to the first floor every morning and goes to work. In the evening, when he comes back, on a rainy day, or if there are other people in the elevator, he goes to his floor directly. Otherwise, he goes to the seventh floor and walks up three flights of stairs to his apartment.

Can you explain why? One hour Miss Hooper."

The line went dead. Molly sunk down into the closest chair and began to think.

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**This story will start out rated K and I am sure 96.38% that it will become T. There is a 14.96% chance that the rating may go up to M, but that will only be if I decide to use an alternate ending and make the story a smidge darker, but most likely not. If the rating does change there will be a rating warning and description of reasons at the beginning of the chapter. The story itself, however, will remain T, because of the warning that will be provided.**

**This story has an oddish story line and type. The plot includes a series of riddles and puzzles. Molly's job is to solve those riddles. Your job is to either read and enjoy, or help her solve them. PLEASE DO NOT LOOK UP THE ANSWERS ON SAFARI AND POST THEM. Some people do read the comments before they read a story, and it would really suck if they knew the plot and progression without even opening the story! If you really would like to see if you are right, please inbox or email me! I am open to suggestions for riddles and other story tips, so do not hesitate to leave any comments or questions or complaints (suggestions are allowed in the comments, just don't put the answer to any riddle you suggest). Thank you so much for reading!**

**Comments MUCH appreciated!**

**Next chapter hopefully up next week**

**-R. Lambert**


	2. Chapter 2

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

Chapter 2

Molly needed sleep. Forty-five minutes had gone past since the riddle challenge had begun. Her first attempt had been to look up the answer on line, but just her luck, the Internet was out. Her second attempt was to find the riddle. She had immediately run through her flat, searching for every riddle book she could find. After she had rounded up every piece of evidence related to riddles, the total had come to four books and one made up riddle from grade school. The made up riddle was obviously no help, and one of the books was a simple novel with just had one riddle during the plot.

The hunt wasn't really getting anywhere, just leading her in circles. Many of the riddles were in all three books, a waste of space and time for Molly. The average number of pages in all three books was 67 each. However, 38 pages into the fist book, Molly had gotten up to get tea. 12 pages into the second, she'd had to go to the bathroom. 69 pages into the second book, Anna, her friend from work had called. Molly had asked about the riddle, but Anna had been shopping and had no access to the Internet. She'd only called to ask Molly to come along, to which Molly apologized and hung up as fast as she could. 5 pages left to go in the last book. Nothing so far, and it didn't look like she was going to get anywhere. She had no other way to find out the riddle. The Internet was out still and she only had those three-

Wait! There was another riddle book in her locker at work! She skimmed through the last 5 pages and dropped the book where it was, before placing her teacup on the counter in the kitchen and grabbing her coat and keys. She left, locking the door behind her.

* * *

Upon arriving at the hospital, Molly practically ran to her locker; she only had 12 minutes until the deadline. Her hands shaking as she fumbled with the keys, she tried not to think of what would happen to Sherlock if she didn't make the deadline.

"Hey Molly!"

A familiar voice caught her attention and she turned to say hello, but she stopped. It was Craig, one of the workers from the hospital section of Bart's. He was an inspiration to her, because he'd overcome an issue from when he was a kid, his height. He was short, a midget, Molly guessed, but he didn't like to talk about it, so Molly had never asked.

"Only when there were people in the elevator." She murmured. "Or when it was raining."

Craig kept walking, twirling his umbrella. _HIS UMBRELLA._ The man was a midget. He could only go straight to the tenth floor when there were other people in the elevator to press the button or when it was raining and he had _HIS UMBRELLA_.

Molly turned around and began to rush back outside. 6 minutes. How was she supposed to get in touch with the kidnapper?

* * *

Counting minutes: 6, 5, 4…

Seconds whizzed by. Molly could barely think straight. She opened the door to her flat and dumped her stuff inside the door. Should she try to call him back? Pulling out her phone proved that theory wrong. The number he had called from was a blocked number and she couldn't call back.

What else could she do? Should she run outside and shout it to the world? Should she wait until the deadline was up to see if he called her back? Should she-

Sherlock's website! That's what Sherlock had used when Moriarty had first been playing games with him, before the pool incident. Sherlock's laptop was still on the coffee table where it had been when Molly had gone out earlier. She opened it. The website was already pulled up. That must have been what Sherlock was doing, because he was still logged in. She quickly typed out a message: _Midget with an umbrella. He was too short to reach the buttons himself. Had to get either someone else to do it for him, or when it was raining, he had an umbrella._

She hit send. Now all she could do was wait.

Counting minutes: 3, 2, 1, 0.

Her mobile phone began to ring. At first, Molly made no move toward it, but after three rings, she pounced, pressing the green button and holding the device up to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Well done, Molly Hooper."

Molly breathed a sigh of relief. "Now what?"

"Now you solve the second part of the riddle. How did he die? Four hours." The line went dead. Molly's brow wrinkled in confusion. She repeated the riddle in her head a few times to make sure she wasn't crazy. _He didn't die in the riddle…_ She thought. How does this work? He didn't die!

Her mobile buzzed again, a text from Anna. She was back at the hospital and needed Molly's help there. _New body. Sort of odd. Please come!_

Molly fired a response back and prepared to leave. This time, she brought Sherlock's laptop with her. She might need it.

* * *

Anna and Greg Lestrade were waiting for her at the hospital.

"His name is David Weller. 32 years old, Respected member of London's 'Less Than 5'2" Club'. Quite a peculiar group, to say the least. Found strangled in his pool early this morning. Next-door neighbor went outside when she was taking the dog out, looked into Weller's yard, saw him floating in his pool, called it in." Lestrade briefed Molly on the body as she looked on in disbelief, but analyzed what she could.

"Damage to both the head and strangulation marks on his neck. No water in his lungs means he didn't die of drowning." Molly laughed to herself. He was a midget… "Where did he work?" Lestrade looked up.

"Local business man. He took care of small transactions."

Anna snickered. "But I bet he came out just short of an agreement on the last one."

Molly and Lestrade stared at her. She apologized quietly and left the room to tend to some other things. Molly smiled at Lestrade and stepped up to the body to inspect it. "Are you sure he died of strangulation and not the extensive-looking damage to the head?" She asked curiously. Lestrade shook his head. The neighbor didn't see him die and she didn't hear anything like yelling or a struggle either. We have no idea how he died." Molly nodded.

"I'll take a look and let you know," she scooted the sheet covering the torso of the dead man so she could examine his chest.

As Lestrade thanked her, his phone beeped and he apologized before silently making his way out the door. Molly got out her tools and began her examination.

* * *

Two hours later, Molly was back at her apartment, going over the notes from the body. David Weller had died from strangulation, but the trauma on his head had caused him to black out. She guessed the killer had used something like a hammer to knock Weller out and then while he was unconscious, strangled him. No sign of struggle, the killer probably attacked from behind. Maybe Weller knew him?

She looked at the clock and took a deep breath. Two hours gone, two hours left. She shuddered, trying harder not to think of Sherlock. Yes, thinking about him made her work faster and harder, but she didn't want that to slow her down either. Best not to think about anything but the case, just like Sherlock.

Just like Sherlock. Molly leaned back on the chair behind her. Just like Sherlock. He would have figured out the case by now. He would be working on finding the kidnapper now. He would have blocked out everything until the case was solved. Just like Sherlock: inhuman, insensitive, cold. Just like Sherlock: helpful, brilliant, wonderful.

She missed him. He was an indifferent jerk most of the time, but he was still like family to her and she did enjoy his company. She needed to solve this case. How many times would the kidnapper do this? When Sherlock had gone through something similar, he had had to solve four or five. That gave her a chilling thought. What if this was Moriarty? What if he was still alive? Sherlock had said Jim had shot himself on the roof, but Sherlock had survived his 'impending' death. What said that Moriarty couldn't have pulled off the same trick too? What if his criminal network was getting revenge?

No, Molly, she told herself. Must focus.

She glanced at the clock: two hours six minutes gone, one hour fifty-four minutes left. Best get down to cracking this case, alone.

**Thank you for reading! Reviews always appreciated!**

** Rocking the Redhead-Thank you! That's kind of the take I was going for, sort of a Great Game appearance with Molly as the hero.**

** Smells Like Old Spirit-Yes ma'am it is!**

** Zora Arian-Thank you! That's okay! Just enjoy!**

** Saavikam69-Exactly. Don't forget the basement. Ever. Maybe that'll be a big plot point... (Hint hint, nudge nudge, wink wink)**

** TheOnlyWayOut-Yes, I will be adding codes later on, but they will get harder as the story progresses (hopefully) and I will see how that goes. Thanks for the suggestions! They are most certainly welcomed!**

** MorbidbyDefault-Then hopefully you'll look forward to reading more!**

**Thank you again for reading! Please do not comment with the answers (there isn't a riddle this time, but next chapter...) I hope you enjoy!**

**Questions? Comments? Complaints? Advice? Encouragement? Review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

Chapter 3

_Sherlock_

Cold. Dark. Smell of sawdust and oil. Old workshop. Easy. He was in a metal chair, one loose leg. His hands were bound. His face hurt. Probably bruised, bloodied. His leg hurt as well, but it just felt like sore muscles. His eye. He couldn't open his left eye. It hurt. He felt pain, but familiar pain, like withdrawal. _Oh, god. No, this isn't - I couldn't have -_He thought. Immediately, he felt the one thing in the world he didn't want to feel. Ever.

He felt fear. He was terrified. He'd never told John specifically about his entire past, best to keep things where they were, but he'd especially never told John about his drug problem. The one thing he was afraid of the most was relapse. And now, he might have-_Not possible_. He was over the drugs. He was over the desire to lose his inhibition, to feel free. His mind needed to be occupied, to be filled, and what better thing to fill it with than information. Brain cells. Knowledge of the mind, of the logic in the world. Nothing else belonged in his brain. Ethics just slowed down the inevitable. Everyone is evil, everyone does something wrong in their life. Why should he care what was right and what was wrong and waste time feeling bad about things. People said his deductions were unethical because they made people feel vulnerable. People were vulnerable. Best to tell them so. Emotions were…Hell. Nothing else. Love, hate, sadness, joy, favor, they were all a huge waste of time.

He remembered only one moment of weakness, one moment where he allowed himself to feel sorry, to apologize. He had felt bad, seeing Molly's face after he'd practically told everyone she was still madly in love with him. He sees her face everyday now. The sadness she showed, the embarrassment. Embarrassed. She'd been embarrassed about him. She was stronger now, but only because of that moment. He was weaker now, but only because of that moment. Maybe they would meet in the middle…_No, must stay above this. _Emotions. Waste of time.

"Oy, Holmes!"

Sherlock snapped his head up. He knew that voice. That was the voice of the man who had been in the room when Molly was on the phone. Molly. It had been a relief to hear her voice, annoying and high-pitched as it may be.

"Close your eyes, twit face. You got lunch coming in soon. We're moving you first though." Sherlock obeyed, knowing why he was closing his eyes. The man didn't want Sherlock to see who he was. Maybe he thought Sherlock knew him? Maybe he was recognizable? Maybe it was just so that if Molly solved the riddles when Sherlock was released, he wouldn't be able to identify the man.

A cloth was placed over his eyes. Black, thick, dark. His hands were unbound and he was forced to stand. He was pushed across the room. A door was opened in front of him and he went through. Down a hall, up some stairs, down another hall, through a door. He stopped in the doorway, waiting to be shown where to go from there. Instead, he heard something being placed on a metal table and the cloth being taken off of his eyes. He was sat down and instructed still not to open his eyes yet, as the voice of the familiar man drew closer. Sherlock heard a small squirting sound, like a liquid being checked in a syringe. A hypodermic syringe. Sherlock's breathing immediately because quicker, he didn't want that. The man grabbed his arm, bare - short-sleeved shirt? – and twisted it so that the vein on the inside of his elbow was visible. Sherlock tried to pull away, but the man's grip was fierce and unyielding.

"Relax, Holmes. It's just a sedative. Help you sleep. Better hurry and finish your food," the man slurred. The needle pierced Sherlock's skin and he winced. The man laughed, emptying the syringe and pulling it back out. "Familiar, eh?" His steps led away and the door closed, his cackling still audible for a few seconds.

Carefully, Sherlock struggled to open his one good eye. An almost bare room with one window, nailed shut and barred, a table, on which a tray of food had been placed, a chair, in which he currently sat, and a bed. The bed was decorated with a thin mattress, a single pillow, and an even thinner blanket. Sherlock felt his eyes grow heavy. The bed looked, even with the lack of support and even greater lack of warmth it offered, nicer than the floor. He lay down on the bed and soon felt his eyelid droop until he could see no more.

He dreamt of Molly.

_Molly_

She had it! Three hours and twenty-three minutes into the allotted time, she had solved the mystery. There had been pictures of the property where David Weller worked online, and she'd gotten a look at the backyard. Nice big pool, brilliantly landscaped. Somewhere in the country. The injuries had been 70% self-explanatory. Blow to the head with a hammer. The size of the wound proved the hammer, and the rust she found in the wound proved it was, well, a rusty hammer. Obviously a not used often, left out at some point, not taken care of hammer. The strangulation was key as well. If the murderer had been strong enough, the blow would have been the fatal injury. The killer wasn't strong enough to kill Weller with a hammer, and wasn't strong enough to strangle him while he was conscious. The plan was to knock him out and then strangle him all along.

She'd done some research on Weller's family and colleagues. His wife and daughter lived in his house. His wife was a country girl made proper and mainly went with him to look good. Other than that, she did everything about the house. Last year, she had suffered from a particularly brutal case of pneumonia, which had weakened her significantly. His daughter was a 19-year-old who still didn't know what she wanted to do when she grew up. She stayed at home or worked at the nearest bookstore all day. Weller had three dogs, all large hounds, who stuck by his side all the time when he was home. His wife had a Chihuahua and his daughter had a ferret. The ferret was a despised pet by everyone except the daughter.

Weller's colleagues were quite a bit more exciting. His coworker and business partner, Fred Cambridge was an even more respected man in the community than Weller was. He and Weller had been best friends since the fourth grade. They decided to become business partners in high school and it had been like a fairytale ever since then. Until about a year ago, when Cambridge went missing for six weeks. No one knew where he was, not even David Weller. He showed up six weeks after he disappeared with amnesia and a threat to Weller. The police investigated, but although Cambridge's memory came back, he could tell them nothing of the incident. Weller's personal assistant, Kerry, had been a prostitute until she'd met Weller three years ago. She'd gotten in a car accident and Weller had stopped to help her. They clicked, he invited her to be his personal assistant, and she had agreed. Two weeks ago, there had been a huge scandal revealing Weller's affair with her. That would explain why Weller's wife hadn't come to the last four business meetings or conferences with her husband.

Molly saw right through the murder. It was Weller's wife. She'd gotten angry over his affair and brought out an old tool kit with the rusty hammer late at night. Weller had taken the dogs out and didn't hear his wife sneak up behind him and swing the hammer just enough to knock him out. Then she strangled him and rolled him into the pool. Simple.

_Wow._ She thought, _Is this how Sherlock always feels?_ She dialed Lestrade's number on her phone and waited until he answered,

"Lestrade?"

"Hi, it's Molly. I…um…figured it out." Her voice felt confident, yet still small.

"What? Figured what out?" He was obviously confused and suspicious,

"The murder. It was Weller's wife."

"Um…oh. Okay. Um. I have the press on their way. Can you meet me at the station?"

"Yeah, I'll be there."

"Great. See you then." He hung up. Molly breathed. She'd done it.

At least she hoped so.

* * *

At the press conference, Molly stood behind Lestrade as he relayed the information to the reporters. She'd met him and explained everything. She had brought Sherlock's computer to prove what she'd found. The laptop had become a security blanket for her. It had helped her so far, so maybe it would help her from now on.

"Miss Molly Hooper explained to me that Mr. David Weller's wife had known about the affair, so it's a reasonable excuse for why it took her this long to react. We are moving in on her flat now and she will be in custody by dusk. Thank you." Lestrade finished and the press protested, but he kept walking away. Molly followed close behind.

"How did you know?" He asked her.

Her first instinct was to freeze, so they both stopped. "I just researched Weller on the Internet. After finding out about who he really was, it was easy to piece things together."

"Just like Sherlock would've done." Lestrade whispered, but Molly heard him. She lowered her head. "Sorry, Molly. You'd better get home. You look exhausted. I'll cover anything else. If we have more questions, we'll save them until tomorrow." She thanked him and began to walk to the street to hail a taxi. "Although, before you go, I have to know. Why did you want to solve this case?"

"Nothing, no reason. I just," Molly couldn't think what to say. Should she tell him? He still didn't know that Sherlock was alive. She paused, "I just wanted to do something for…_him_…you know?" Lestrade responded with a nod and a 'thank you'. He hailed a taxi for her and wished her luck before the cab drove off with Molly inside.

Molly's cell phone rang. She jumped and it took her a second before she could answer. "Hello?"

"Congratulations, Miss Hooper. I saw the news."

Molly's blood ran cold. It wasn't the kidnapper. "Thank you, sir."

"And I sincerely apologize."

She hesitated, "Sorry, for what?"

"For my brother's death. I know how much pain it must have caused you. Why don't you tell that cabbie to come by my office and we'll have a much needed and awaited chat."

Molly hesitantly obeyed and told the cabbie. "I'm on my way, Mr. Holmes."

"I look forward to it."

* * *

**Commenters-**

**personofnoconcern3000-Thank you! This update is for you!**

**Zora Arian-Yes, many more riddles to come!**

**HaveABall-Coming right up! Thanks for reading!**

**Nocturnias-Thanks! She's pretty smart isn't she? We don't really give her enough credit. But her smarts will definitely be tested!**

**Miam-Yay! More on the way!**

**MorbidByDefault-Not quite, but good guess! Just an unfaithful one with no suspicions...**

**Rocking the Redhead-Thank you! Well, we'll see...**

* * *

**Thank you again for reading! Please do not comment with the answers. I hope you enjoy!**

**Questions? Comments? Complaints? Advice? Encouragement? Review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

* * *

**I have been replying to your reviews at the end of each chapter, so if you are someone who reviews and doesn't read the author's notes at the end of the chapter, please at least check for your username to read your reply!**

Chapter 4

An assistant opened the door into Mycroft's office and Molly entered silently. The door was closed behind her. The elder Holmes was seated in a high-backed chair behind his desk, facing away from Molly.

As she waited, she looked all around his office. The walls were covered in bookshelves, which were in turn covered in books, old-looking books. There wasn't much else besides the bookshelves, another chair and table, and Mycroft's desk. His desk was almost bare. Only a small stack of papers and some fancy pens were scattered around the cherry-wood surface. Two newspapers; one accompanied the papers on the desk, one sat on the table by the other chair in the room; high-backed as well. The newspaper on the table was from today, but as Molly inched closer to the desk, she saw that the one on the desk was from a very different day. The headline was 'Suicide of Fake Genius: Fraudulent Detective Takes His Own Life.' Molly sighed. It had been quite a while since she'd taken time to think about that day, but it looked as though Mycroft thought about it everyday. He didn't know. She and Sherlock had agreed that they would hold off on telling Mycroft as long as possible; they didn't want him to get involved, because he would get too involved.

Her sigh had alerted Mycroft, and his chair swiveled to see Molly giving the newspaper on his desk a sad glance. He quickly covered it with the papers he had been reading and straightened his jacket. Molly jumped back, avoiding eye contact. She had personally never met Mycroft, but Sherlock had told her he was intimidating and she should try not to be too near him and not to tell him any secrets because they would end up in the national files.

"Miss Hooper?" Mycroft asked in a posh voice.

"Yes, sir," Molly responded. She stuffed her fists into her jacket pockets, either it was cold in the office, or Mycroft's glare sent shivers through her whole body. She was hoping it was just the first option, but the latter was looking pretty likely. When Mycroft didn't say anything, she piped up quietly, but intently. "Did you need me for something?"

"Ah yes," Mycroft stood, straightening his jacket again. "I was interested in knowing your current state."

Molly looked confused. "I'm not sure I know what you mean…"

"With my little brother's death."

"Oh," Yes, he didn't know yet. Molly swallowed nervously before treading lightly. "I'm…fine. I'm okay, still a little hurt, but I'm okay."

"Yes, I worried about you the most out of all of Sherlock's friends. You claim you were not his friend, but from how much he used to speak of you when John wasn't around, I would claim otherwise. He was very fond of you," Mycroft made his way around the desk to her side, still staying comfortably far away. "He tried not to show how he felt, you know. Said it made him softer." He lifted his neck and narrowed his eyes. "Between you and I, sometimes I think he needed a softer side."

This last statement was accompanied by a longing look. Molly thought she saw sadness, but the flash was so fast, she couldn't be certain. The emotion she was sure she saw was regret. Mycroft regretted his brother's death.

"It wasn't your fault, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, I've been told that before," his relaxed and professional composure broke for a second when his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and continued. "Mother would tell me that after every time Sherlock got in trouble with anyone. When the teachers would send him home early for disrupting class, or when he became a drug addict, or when Lestrade would contact me with another complaint about Sherlock's unacceptable behavior, Mother would always assure me it wasn't ever my fault. I am not in control of my brother, but he is – was my responsibility. I cannot escape that," he stopped to wipe the tears from his eyes. He swallowed and faced Molly.

"I'm terribly sorry."

"I know. It's not your fault that he's gone, either."

_No,_ thought Molly. _But it is my fault that you think he's dead._ She bowed her head and willed herself to stay silent.

"My other reason for bringing you here is to ask why on earth you might have a need to solve a crime?" His open and sorrowful demeanor was gone, replaced with a curious and unyielding politician.

Molly forced herself to laugh. "I didn't actually mean to."

"Oh?"

"Yeah! It was more of an endeavor to pass the time. I was called in to examine the body and I thought I might as well get involved in a case for the first time. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing." She shifted uncomfortably onto one foot.

"I see. Well, Mr. Weller was a respected man, so I guess I owe you my thanks and my encouragement to go on like this. You solved a case the same way and in the same amount of time Sherlock would have. He had quite an influence on you, it seems."

Molly blushed. "Yeah, I guess he did." She started to get teary-eyed herself, even though she knew Sherlock was still alive. Well, she hoped he was still alive. Oh! The kidnapper! She checked her watch. She had twenty-two minutes until the deadline. How would she explain this to Mycroft if she didn't make it and Sherlock's dead body was found in the middle of no-where? He was 'already dead'! She cleared her throat again.

Mycroft caught the message and jumped into action. "My apologies, Miss Hooper. You must have somewhere to be. I'm sorry I can't see you out myself, but tell the man standing at the front you need a ride and he will see to it."

Molly thanked him and made her way to the door. She stopped with her hand on the handle. "For the record, Mr. Holmes, I think you made a pretty big impact on Sherlock, as well."

He gave her a sad smile and she continued out the door. The man at the front showed her to a black car. She told him where to go and closed the door.

* * *

Upon arriving at her flat, she felt that something was wrong. She thanked the driver and inched cautiously to the door. It was ajar. She used two fingers to push it open and made her way carefully inside.

The hallway was fine. Her coat rack was upright, Sherlock's lonely coat still hanging undisturbed. She didn't even bother hanging her own coat up until she knew that her flat was safe. She made her way into the kitchen and gasped. Everything had been overturned and her cabinets were opened and broken plates and cups lay all over the tiled floor. Every dish she had was broken. Except for her favorite mug? It sat on the counter amidst the broken porcelain. There was tea inside, but not her tea. She'd made sure to clean out that mug and place it in the cabinet.

A creak from inside her bedroom jolted her attention and she froze. Grabbing a knife from the drawer where they sat (the drawers were still in tact), she crept along the carpet toward her bedroom and tried to calm her breathing. Another creak sounded and she jumped. The door was closed and Molly felt afraid to open it.

If only Sherlock had been there. Sure, he would have laughed at her foolishness, but he would have opened her door for her with such bravery.

Molly paused. She could do this. She placed her hand on the knob and twisted it, slowly opening the door.

* * *

**HAHAHAHAHA! A CLIFFHANGER!**

**Thanks for reading. I promise next chapter there will be another riddle (or a code...). This chapter was just for background purposes only. Sorry.**

**magicstrikes-Yes, enter Mycroft. Just some words of wisdom to offer (this time).**

**MorbidByDefault-Yeah, sorry about that. Maybe next time! Welcome, Mycroft, dear...**

**It's-Somebody-Sorry, the guy was too short to reach the buttons...Didn't make it clear enough, my bad. Thanks!**

**Guest(dreaming of Molly)-Yes, he's sweeter than usual in this fanfiction. Please let me know if he gets too much so. In this chapter, I tried to have Mycroft explain some things about their past, so let me know if you like it!**

**Guest(bit of Sherlock)-I will try to throw some of Sherlock's perspective in more often, especially in coming chapters, so keep reading! Thanks!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

* * *

**I apologize for the short chapter, but at least it includes a riddle!**

Chapter 5

Molly pushed open the door as slowly and quietly as she could, breathing quietly. When the door was partly open, she glanced around the room before walking inside. Another creak sounded from her behind her and the door slammed closed. Her breath hitched, she managed to keep calm and turned slowly.

A familiar Irish brogue. "Hello Molly, dear."

Molly instinctively backed up. "That's not possible. You were dead, on a slab. I saw! It was definitely you!" She backed into a wall. The man took a few steps toward her. He smiled. It was the same cute-at-first-but-when-you-get-to-know-him-it's-creepy smile he'd always used to give her.

When they'd dated, she'd adored him. He was an incredibly nice guy, even if he was totally gay, and she had really liked him. When Sherlock had informed her of his life choices, she'd shut down. Although she had still gone on that date, the relationship hadn't gone past that. Molly had stopped replying to texts, stopped calling, and stopped coming to visit him. She had felt bad, but that all changed after John had nearly been blown up.

Jim had come back. He'd come to see her, in her flat before Sherlock had 'died'. She shivered, remembering the horrific things he'd told her about. He truly was an evil man, not just some lunatic genius looking for distractions. He told her of the beauty of death, the thrill of seeing a life in your control. She swallowed.

Jim noticed. "Molly, it's okay. I'm just here to offer congratulations in person. I saw the news and decided that was an adequate declaration."

"Congratulations?"

"Yes, for solving the murder. To be honest, I didn't think you had it in you. Although, I always knew you were smart, just timid. Being timid can take quite a toll on your confidence." Jim examined his perfectly manicured fingernails as he edged closer to her. Molly lowered the knife in her tightly clenched fist.

"What do you want?"

"Oh my Molly, my sweet and naive Molly, if you could only give me what I truly wanted." Now he was so close, she could smell the freshness of his breath. His voice had become deep and menacing. She couldn't back up because of the wall behind her, but she straightened up and tried to look at least a little bit intimidating. It didn't work. Jim would not back off. "I want Sherlock dead. He isn't entertaining in the least anymore, but who is to say I can't have my fun while getting rid of him?"

Molly furrowed her brow. "I don't understand. Sherlock isn't here. Why are you?" Jim smiled again, more evil sneaking into his slightly crooked teeth.

"Sherlock is exactly where I want him right now."

Molly understood. She placed both hands on his chest, shoved him back and held up her knife. "Sherlock is where you want him? What does that mean? Did you kidnap him? Have you been giving me the riddles?" She made him back up now, threatening him with her blade. She felt stronger, more prominent and fierce.

"Yes, well, no. Not directly anyway. Like I told your dear friend Sherlock: I don't like getting my hands dirty. I don't like being the one in trouble. I do, however, love to be the one in charge. So do not go on thinking that you are getting the best side of me." He quickly grabbed her arm and spun her so that he was almost hugging her. He was holding her knife-wielding arm, and he had twisted her so that she now had the blade pressed against her own neck. She squirmed, panting hard. Jim hissed in her ear, "Molly, you will never be brave enough to take on such a monster as me. I am the nightmare you fear every night. I am the monster that hides under your bed at night. I am the thief on the other side of the street. I am the shady man in the tube. Do not underestimate what I can do to you. Do not underestimate what I can do to Sherlock. Understand?"

Molly, now scared to death, nodded, almost unable to move in his tight grip.

"Good. Now, I have another riddle for you, dear. Just thought you might want to hear it in person. Tell me, Molly, how far can a young girl run into a forest?" With that, he let her go and turned to walk out of the room. Molly followed, thinking hard. She watched as Jim grabbed her mug off of the counter and took a sip before placing it back down. "You'd better clean this mess up, Molly. Someone could get seriously hurt."

He stepped lightly to the front door and was gone. Molly stood in awe.

How far can a young girl run into a forest?

**Please do not comment the answer!**

**Thank you for reading! This was a short chapter, but next chapter will be long, and some things will change, thanks to Moriarty's entrance here. I don't know when I'll get to update next, this week is pretty busy because I'm recording for a piano competition, so I promise I will update as soon as possible. This fast updat is my apology and hopefully it's enough to keep you guys happy for a little but!**

**magicstrikes-Yes, sorry about that...**


	6. Chapter 6

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

Chapter 6

Sherlock sighed. Molly was having nightmares again. He opened his bedroom door and crossed the hall to her bedroom. He pushed the door in, biting his lip when he saw Molly tangled up in her sheets, sweating and mumbling. He stepped by her bed and knelt down, placing his hand on her arm.

"Molly?" He whispered. When she didn't respond, he repeated himself, louder, and shook her arm lightly. Molly jerked her eyes open and sat up, breathing heavily. She furrowed her brow and slowly turned her head to Sherlock, unbelieving.

She reached out and touched his face and when she was sure it was him, she threw her arms around his neck and began sobbing. Sherlock tensed at first, but eventually loosened up and hugged her back.

After a moment, Molly pulled back and wiped the tears from her eyes. "Sorry," she sighed.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sherlock murmured, half-hopeful that she hadn't heard him. He knew she had by how wide her eyes got.

"Really?" she asked in disbelief. "You never ask if I want to talk."

He shrugged. She immediately began telling him about the nightmare. "It seemed so real. I mean, like it was actually happening. You were kidnapped and a strange man called me. He told me I had to solve his riddles to save you. He told me the first riddle then, and I solved it. There was some weird case connected to the riddle, and I solved that too. I met with your brother and then I came home to find Moriarty waiting. He threatened me."

"And that's when you woke up?"

"No, he told me a riddle before he left. That's when I woke up." Sherlock waited, but when she didn't continue, he prodded.

"What was the riddle?"

Molly squinted, trying to remember. "How far can a young girl run into a forest?"

Sherlock took no time in answering, "halfway."

Molly stared at him. "Oh." It made sense. Sherlock got up to leave, but halfway to the door, he turned. "Molly, tell me. What did my brother look like in your dream, and how did you know he was my brother?"

Molly smiled. "You two have the same nose and skin tone. He had a receding hairline and a quirky mouth. He was taller than you, but not by much. Um, he had a big office in a white building? I don't remember much else…except he cared for you. That's what gave it away: his concern for you. No one talks that way about you, except your brother."

Sherlock didn't speak for a minute. He looked confused. "Molly have you ever met my brother?"

Molly thought, and then shook her head. "If I did, I don't remember, but I know it was him." He began to leave again, but Molly spoke without thinking. "Wait!" He stopped, but didn't turn around. Molly couldn't move her mouth. What was she thinking? She found her voice and was about to tell him not to mind, but he spoke before she did.

"You want me to stay."

Molly cleared her throat. "You don't have to. I mean, you don't need to…Of course if you want to, you could…I know you don't sleep, but you could sit in my chair," she stuttered.

Molly couldn't see, but Sherlock was smiling. It was a half-evil smile. _Experiment_ was the first that crossed his mind. He needed an experiment, and as his brain worked out what to do, he became more excited. Without skipping a beat, he moved to the other side of Molly's bed, and lifted up the covers, sliding under them. He moved behind her and held the covers up. Molly sat, frozen. "Lie down, Molly," Sherlock said. Molly shivered. His voice was lower than usual, and she obeyed, lying down in her usual sleep position, on her side. She felt Sherlock lower the covers and shift until he was spooning her. His arms came around her to rest on her stomach.

Molly went straight to sleep. Sherlock, though not one for sleeping, found strangely like dozing off…He was warm. His bed wasn't warm…He scooted closer to Molly, catching a surprisingly good whiff of strawberry shampoo…Within a few minutes, his eyes betrayed his brain, and he drifted off.

No one watched the front door. No one watched the flat as Sherlock and Molly slept. No one saw the mysterious man approach the entrance. No one watched as he stuffed a small piece of paper underneath the door. No one saw what it was. No one saw. No one saw.

* * *

**Okay... Before you guys get angry or confused, this will all be explained. It will make sense. I am writing this as I go, so the story doesn't always let me know before it goes and changes the entire plan. It will be explained, though. Do not fear! Have faith in my subconscious! I know this was a short chapter. I know I promised a long chapter, but I promise next chapter will answer some of your questions. (Although with the rate this is going, even my questions won't be answered...)**

**Anyway...**

**Rocking the Redhead-Thank you!**

**Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

* * *

**Longer chapter. Just like I promised! And explanation!**

Chapter 7

_3 hours previous…_

"Yes, sir. Are you sure?" Sherlock's eyes opened weakly to see the man who had drugged him standing by his bed, on the phone with someone. He blinked a few times to wake himself up. The man had a very confused look on his face. Sherlock waited until he was off the phone.

"Well," the man said, hesitantly, "Boss says to let you go." He frowned as he opened the door. "He's actually waiting outside in the car for you. Have fun."

As Sherlock slowly stood from the bed, he had the same look as the man by the door. He slipped through the opening and turned back around. "Thank you?" He wasn't actually sure if he should thank the man for…torturing him and shoving him into a closet…

The man looked up briefly and the two had a shared moment of awkward "I don't know what to say to you" energy. Sherlock turned and walked away. He entered the hallway before reaching the door. There were no lights in the hallway, so Sherlock had to feel his way along the walls.

Boss? Who was Boss? He was wondering if he might know who Boss was, when he reached forward and felt the door in front of him. Well, he was about to find out. He twisted the knob and pulled the door open.

The light blinded him. He squinted and blinked, trying to escape the dots that were scattered across his vision. Once the dots were faded, he could see a cab parked at the curb. The shadow of a head sat in the backseat. Without hesitating, Sherlock crossed the sidewalk, of course checking to see if anyone he knew was watching, and yanked open the car door.

"Did you miss me, Sherlock, dear?" A very familiar voice made him freeze. _Impossible_. He stepped back and stared, unbelieving, at the psychopath in the back of the taxi. "You might want to get in, darling, someone might see you. Remember? You're dead." Moriarty grinned at him, showing mangled teeth. Sherlock shuddered, but admitted to himself two things: 1 – he could be seen. That would not be good. 2 – he wasn't afraid. Just because there was a ghost sitting in the cab, he wasn't afraid. He slipped in beside his nemesis and closed the door.

The cab driver set off, leaving Sherlock and Jim alone to talk. Jim began, "How have you been?"

Sherlock almost laughed. "Oh, you know how it is. Trying to appear dead." Jim grinned again and snorted.

"Oh, yes. The ever-tiring works of the deceased. I understand perfectly well."

"What do you want?" Sherlock turned to face Moriarty, beginning to get angry. He was angry because Moriarty had scared Molly. He had taken her protection. He was angry because they were both supposed to be dead, and the world would be safer if they were.

"I want you to know that I'm alive. And very much so." Moriarty's grin disappeared. His face became menacing and fierce, but a soft fierce. He glared at Sherlock. "I wanted to see what you'd gotten yourself into. With Molly, I mean. Unfortunately for me, I thought she was weak." He faced the seat in front of him. "She's not. She is terribly clever. You picked her right. Good choice."

"Is that it?"

"No, actually. I wanted to also let you know that even though the world thinks you are dead, I don't give a damn. I want you to realize that this doesn't change anything. You are still boring, and I want to have fun. I will hunt you Sherlock."

"You've already hunted me. You lost." Moriarty's head whipped around again.

He snarled back, "I am still alive Sherlock. It is a tie. We are both still alive. If this turns out to be a checkmate between the two of us, I will admit defeat. It will mean you are my equal. However, this match, this tournament will be the death of one of us. Who that will be is up to the gods. Choose your weapons well."

Sherlock stayed silent for a minute. The cab driver was obviously an employee of Moriarty's, because if he'd been a normal cabbie, he would've kicked them both out by now. They were nearing Molly's flat, and Sherlock was almost afraid to see what the inside held for him. A fuming Molly? A fearful Molly? He dreaded seeing what this monster had done to her. He turned back to Moriarty.

"You can chase me all you want. You can kill me now, even. Just don't hurt Molly."

"Oh, Sherlock. I can't kill you now, that would ruin all of the fun! And why the sudden sentiment? You love her? No, it can't be. The mighty and all-powerful Sherlock, in love with a mere peasant? Impossible!" Moriarty laughed as he mocked Sherlock.

"No. I'm not in love with her. She was the one who helped me escape my death. I owe my life to her. Don't get her involved."

"Too late!" Moriarty turned to Sherlock as the cabbie pulled in front of the flat and stopped. Sherlock frowned.

"What do you mean, 'too late'?" He swallowed, bracing himself for the answer.

"Well, I've already paid dear Molly a little visit. Go inside and see for yourself. She took it rather badly." His Irish brogue rang in Sherlock's ears, which already had blood pounding through them. His anger rose higher in his chest. Moriarty continued. "I brought her a little gift, and it should have been opened already. Make sure you remind her it was all a dream. She'll never know it was real, unless you tell her. Say hello to her for me."

Sherlock grabbed the lapels of Moriarty's suit. He drew his face closer to the maniac and growled, "This is not a game. Do not make it into one."

Moriarty laughed as Sherlock let him go and exited the cab. Before the cabbie drove off again, he replied, "The games have just begun."

Sherlock watched the cab leave in amazement. He wouldn't stop. Moriarty was like a virus. He just wouldn't stop. He turned and took a deep breath before entering the flat. He half expected to see Molly lying in a pool of her own blood in the doorway, but he did not. What he saw was her coat, hanging beside his on the coat rack. He stepped lightly to the kitchen and there, he saw Molly.

She was sitting cross-legged on the counter, staring at a cup of tea.

Sherlock paused, confused. She took it rather badly? She obviously did because she was…staring…at a cup of tea. Sherlock waited a moment, watching Molly watch tea. Then he cleared his throat and shamed himself as Molly jumped and she grabbed a knife on the other side of her. When he pointed it in his direction, he put his hands up. He hadn't seen the knife.

Molly's jaw dropped. She put the knife back on the counter after seeing it was Sherlock and ran to greet him. She threw her arms around him, and he hugged her back. She seemed alright… Just a little relieved to see him.

"Are you alright?" He wanted to make sure she was.

She looked back at the tea. "You lied."

"What?"

"You lied. You said he was dead."

Sherlock looked at the tea and noticed what she'd been staring at. The mug, which had once been Molly's favorite, was decorated with a big red 'IOU'. Sherlock felt a shiver run up his spine, making the hairs on his neck stand out. Was that Moriarty's gift? A message? Surely not.

"I know, and I thought so too. I was just with him. He's very much alive, but I really don't know how. I'm sorry Molly. I am!" He hugged her tighter. She eventually let go and went to the cupboard.

"Surely you'd like tea? Or coffee?" She asked. Sherlock smiled. There was the Molly he knew. He nodded.

Molly set to work on Sherlock's tea. She didn't want any because her favorite teacup was currently an art display. She heated the water and poured it into the mug, wincing as she stepped on a piece of glass. She checked the bottom of her foot for a cut, and flinched as a small pool of blood began to form.

Sherlock could see her injury from where he was standing. He opened a drawer next to him and pulled out a First Aid kit. He motioned for Molly to sit on the counter so he could take a look.

Molly hesitantly obeyed, trying not to spill the hot water or put her foot down. She gave up and set the mug down on the counter and lifted herself up beside it. Sherlock set the First Aid kit on her other side and pulled out a disinfecting cloth and dabbed at the wound. He covered it with a Band-Aid and closed the kit. He stood opposite her and began steeping his tea.

Five minutes passed before anyone spoke. Sherlock was enjoying his tea by now, although, it wasn't coffee, and therefore didn't have the same effect. Molly sat across from him, simply watching him drink his tea. His lips slightly touched the lip of the mug every so often. Molly spoke first.

"I'm glad you're okay."

Sherlock smiled. It was a genuine smile. He nodded, thinking of his meeting with Moriarty. It seemed like the psychopath hadn't terrorized Molly too much. And Sherlock hadn't seen any other 'gift' besides the message on the mug, so he didn't know what the actual gift might have been.

He replied, "You got a visit?" Molly's face darkened. She nodded.

"Did he hurt you?"

"No, not directly, anyway. I did get cut one other time by the glass he left behind, but other than that, I'm fine."

"Glass?" Sherlock looked around at the floor. "You obviously cleaned it all up. Let me see."

Molly showed him the bigger scar on her hand. "It happened about three minutes before you arrived. I cleaned it the same way you did the one on my foot, so there's not a chance of infection."

They became silent again. Sherlock thought of his meeting with Moriarty. _The games have just begun._ What could he have meant? Surely he wasn't going to start all of the stupid endeavors again that they had been through before. He thought of his last encounter with Moriarty when they were both still legally alive. _As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends._ He – he knew. He staged his death just like Sherlock did. He knew Sherlock would end up jumping. He wasn't after Sherlock. Now he was after Sherlock's friends! But…what could he possibly want with an old housekeeper, a seasoned detective, and a mourning ex-army doctor? He hadn't even mentioned Molly.

_He hadn't mentioned her._ His intention was to keep Molly alive all along. What did he want with her? Sherlock's attention snapped to Molly, who had jumped down from the counter and she was warming Sherlock's forgotten tea. He concentrated.

"What exactly did he say to you?"

Molly jumped. She turned to Sherlock and tried to remember. "I can't remember exactly, but he was warning me like the creep he is about how he wants you dead, but he will make it as fun as he possibly can. Then he told me a last riddle."

Sherlock turned away from Molly as he asked his question. "What was the riddle?" He didn't see Molly place a hand against her forehead. He didn't see her grip the counter for strength. He didn't see her struggle to stay standing. Her eyes dilated and she collapsed.

Sherlock heard the thump as Molly's body hit the floor. He panicked and ran to her side. She was breathing, that was good. She was alive. He scanned her body for any other injuries, but found none. She didn't drink anything, no poison. He picked her up and carried her bridal style into her bedroom and set her down on the bed, placing the cover over her.

Sherlock perched on the chair across the room and stayed like that, watching Molly, thinking what the cause for this unlikely and surprising incident could be. Two hours passed, and Molly didn't wake up. He decided to continue his thoughts in his room. No one could get to her in here, not while he was awake. He exited the room and left Molly in peace.

* * *

**Thank you all for the reviews! They keep me going! And I am truly and overwhelmingly sorry for the long breaks in between chapters. I have been busy with recording for piano competitions and schoolwork. However, this week is Spring Break. Here is a celebratory chapter! I know I will be working on this story every spare minute I get, but I won't update every day, just so I can have a few chapters written in advance. Thanks so much for the feedback! They really do help with writer's block and when things are looking tough. Thank you to every person who has stuck with this fanfiction so far. It means a lot to me!**

**Keep reading!**

****** Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

* * *

Chapter 8

Molly awoke suddenly. She was surprisingly warm. Something – someone was pressed against her back. She willed her breathing to calm and slowly turned in her captor's arms, only to find Sherlock, eyes tightly closed, arms around her waist, lips slightly parted, fast asleep. Molly laughed to herself, and faced him. She didn't wake him, he rarely got sleep anyway, and enjoyed him warmth. She buried herself in his grasp and closed her eyes again.

Sherlock awoke a few minutes later, in almost the exact same situation. Molly was facing him now, so she had obviously woken before him. He silently thanked her for not waking him up, he was absolutely exhausted from being kidnapped and drugged and drugged again. He stared at her peaceful face.

Molly was the sort of girl who had gotten her heart broken over and over again, so he had known she was strong when he chose to put her life in danger, instead of Lestrade or his brother. She knew what was right and she would stand up for it no matter what. She'd been changed by his 'death', but in some ways that was a good thing. She no longer hung on his every word, she was more rational and careful in the things that she did. She didn't dwell in the past, either. She didn't bring up John; she let Sherlock mourn in peace. She had changed a lot, much more than Sherlock had actually anticipated.

Sherlock had changed, too. He wasn't as forward as he used to be. He realized things about people now: they don't generally like to be deduced, they are more fragile emotionally than Sherlock, because people don't train themselves to deal with the things he'd been through. Not only did people not train themselves, they didn't always understand. It took John a few minutes to realize Sherlock had dealt with drugs before…

* * *

"_Seriously? This guy – a junkie? Have you met him?"_

_John..."_

"_You could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational."_

"_John, you probably want to shut up now."_

"_But come on...No..."_

"_What?"_

"_You?"_

"_Shut up!"_

* * *

Sherlock remembered that first day knowing John. He had already known when Mike Stamford walked in with an ex-military doctor following close behind that he'd found a friend worth fighting for. He smiled. He wondered how John was. Where he was now, where he was working, what he ate for breakfast. Sherlock knew John would have eaten breakfast, because he was sure all of the heads would be out of the fridge already. The thought made him sad.

He pushed the emotion down and looked back at Molly. She was a friend. She must be, for him to trust her so much. She wasn't before, Heaven knows, because she followed him everywhere, trying desperately to get him to go out for coffee or come visit her in the morgue again. He shuddered. That had been old Molly. He liked new Molly better. She didn't have to worry about asking him to come visit her, because (1) he wasn't legally alive and (2) he lived in her flat now.

She'd been so kind to help him and offer him a place to stay. He smiled again and softly brushed a small piece of hair out of Molly's face. His fingers must have been cold, because her eyes snapped open and she blinked a couple of times before rolling over and stretching. Sherlock's arm was still trapped under Molly, and he winced as she rolled over, crushing his upper arm.

Molly noticed his wince, "Sorry!" She sat up and allowed him to rescue his poor arm. She took a deep breath. "I don't know the last time I slept that long."

"Well, about thirty minutes of that sleep doesn't count because of your nightmare, and your good-night's-sleep was drug-ind – " Sherlock caught himself and remembered Moriarty's words:

_Just assure her it was a dream._

"What?" Molly turned to him with furrowed brows. "Drug induced?"

"Well, I mean, warm milk helps you sleep." Molly smiled and swung her feet out of bed.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock sat up as well.

When Molly turned to answer, she couldn't stifle the laugh that escaped her mouth. Sherlock's hair was sticking out all over the place. She answered, "I'm getting some tea, with cold milk in it. You might want to shower and tame that mane of yours." She exited the room.

Sherlock reached up to feel his head. It was true his hair was unruly and messy. He took Molly's suggestion and headed for her bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was out of the shower, with a towel around his waist, and his hair was tamed. He left Molly's room and crossed to his room, stopping to make sure Molly was still in the kitchen. He didn't want her disappearing after the previous two days' affairs. She looked like she was reading a letter, possibly something from yesterday's mail. He entered his bedroom and pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He hated this new apparel that Molly had chosen, but he agreed that if he was going to stay undercover, he must change his habits.

He went back to the kitchen to make coffee, but found a cup waiting for him. He went to thank Molly, but was startled by the look of fear on her face. He stood beside her and glanced at the paper in her hands.

_A teenage girl, Anna, went missing yesterday. She was out with her friends, and they all took a picture. While the others were continuing on, Anna looked at her pictures. She was kidnapped there. A witness said they saw a man stick her in a white van and drive off toward the woods nearby._

_I'll ask again. How far can a young girl run into a forest?_

* * *

**And next chapter begins the actual hunting! I apologize if Sherlock seems ooc, I did try to justify in this chapter, I really just prefer a softer version of Sherlock, but still with all of the genius. Please forgive me!**

**Next chapter up within three days. I promise. And (hint, hint) the best treat for a writer are the reviews! Thank you to all who reviewed the last chapter! Speaking of those yummy little reviews...**

**********Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

* * *

Chapter 9

Lestrade hated work. Every since Sherlock's death, he had come to hate work. They definitely closed fewer cases and didn't close as fast. He hadn't hated working before Sherlock's death. He certainly had hated working with Sherlock sometimes, but he didn't hate working because he had gotten things done.

Now, he was sitting at his desk, thinking. Thinking about Sherlock, thinking about John and how he was doing, thinking about the cases the unit had closed since Sherlock's death: the few cases the unit had closed since Sherlock's death.

Lestrade's phone vibrated on top of his desk. He sighed and glanced at the screen, but it was not Sally. It was Molly. He answered.

"Hello?"

"Lestrade! It's Molly!"

"Molly, are you alright?"

"No. Well, yes, but we – I suspect that will change soon."

"What do you mean? Are you alone? Where are you?"

There was a pause. Lestrade heard another voice on the other end, a deep, baritone voice. It sounded familiar, but he couldn't make out any words. He asked again, "Molly. Are you alright?"

"Yes, for now. I need to know if you can contact the Dorset Police. Ask them if they've found anything suspicious in the New Forest area." Her voice became distant, like she had pulled the phone away from her face to talk to someone else. "Are you sure it's the New Forest? Oh, okay." She held the phone back up to her ear. "Yes, in the New Forest area. Tell them that any area near the exact middle would be the most likely spot. I also need to get down there. Do you think you could spare enough room in a police car for me and a friend?"

Lestrade paused. She was talking too fast. "What?"

"There was a girl kidnapped from Southampton yesterday. The man who kidnapped her was seen driving toward the forest. I need to get over there and see if I can find her."

"Molly I can't let you come for three reasons. 1 – This would be a police operation. 2 – I have no business in Dorset Police matters. 3 – I don't know who your 'friend' is."

Another pause, but this time, there was no other voice. Molly's voice quieted. "Please. I can't tell you what's going on. My life and my friend's life are in danger. Please, Greg."

Lestrade sighed again. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you." The voice on the other end became clearer, but Lestrade couldn't make out the words still. The voice sounded so familiar!

An hour and fifteen minutes later, Molly finished up her second call with Lestrade. He had called the Dorset Police and they had begun an expedition to find this missing girl. They had found someone, maybe the victim, and had called Lestrade back right away. He had called Molly.

"Yes, okay. Thank you. All right, we'll meet you in New Forest in about ninety minutes. Okay. Thank you so much!" Molly hung up and glanced over at Sherlock. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Sherlock had decided, since Moriarty was still alive and knew that Sherlock was alive and Moriarty was hunting him and Molly, he was going to inform Lestrade of his continued existence and find a place where Lestrade could protect Molly and him. It was the only choice, in order to protect themselves, Molly and Sherlock needed to run away, not stand and fight. They would try to figure out a plan to cut off Moriarty once they were somewhere safe, but for now, they needed to just get out of harm's way.

Sherlock nodded. "It's the only way to ensure our safety."

"No, I mean tell Lestrade."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure."

The ninety-minute drive from London to the New Forest was silent. Neither Sherlock nor Molly spoke a word. Molly thought of the poor girl Anna, lost somewhere in the forest. She hoped they would find her alive, but something gave her the feeling that wouldn't happen. Sherlock thought of revealing himself to Lestrade. After nine months or so of hiding out in Molly's flat, waiting for his death to die down and the news to forget about it. It didn't take as long as he had hoped for people to forget about him. Obviously he wasn't that badly needed in the world, because people never asked Molly how she was faring, no one on the news gave updates on the status of his body. No one cared anymore. No one needed him.

The cab stopped in the middle of the forest, on a dirt road they'd been driving down for a while. The cabbie waited as Sherlock and Molly exited the cab and Molly handed him a bundle of bills.

Sherlock was used to heading straight to the crime scene, so he set out to do so. He heard Molly clear her throat behind him and turned.

"Best wait for me."

Sherlock nodded. He waited for Molly to catch up and they headed toward the small crowd of police officers. They spotted Lestrade and Sally standing slightly off to the side, accompanied by someone they didn't recognize. Molly crossed in front of Sherlock, making him stop.

"You're one hundred percent sure?"

"Whatever I have to do to keep you safe, I will do it."

Molly smiled. He was doing this for her safety. She nodded and allowed Sherlock to walk beside her. They reached Lestrade and his posse and Molly alerted him.

"Good morning, Lestrade."

Lestrade and Sally and their new friend turned. Lestrade spoke first.

"Sherlock?"

**Sorry about the short chapter. I have plans for later and wouldn't have been able to spend as much time on this chapter as I would have hoped, but it's still a chapter! So Sherlock and Lestrade have met now. What will happen? And who is Lestrade's new friend? Next chapter coming soon**!

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! This story has over three thousand views, almost 40 reviews, and many thanks from me to you!**

**********Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

* * *

Chapter 10

Lestrade and Sally stood, mouths agape, saying nothing. Sherlock cleared his throat, switching his gaze between the two detectives. Molly watched Sherlock's face, waiting for a sarcastic comment to come out of his mouth, but it never came. Instead, Lestrade mumbled loud enough for the small group to hear, "You bastard."

Sherlock cried out as Lestrade's fist came in contact with his jaw. He fell back onto the ground and reached a hand up to his lip, now swollen, and pulled it back, grimacing at the sight and taste of blood. Lestrade's friend and Sally tried to restrain the angry Detective Inspector. Molly rushed to help Sherlock off the ground, instructing him to pinch his lip tightly.

The entire crowd of people had quieted down and now focused their attention on the man on the ground and the detective that put him there.

Both Lestrade and Sherlock were breathing hard. Sally was talking to Lestrade, trying to calm him down. Eventually, the fire went out of Lestrade's eyes. He turned away from Sherlock and pushed away Sally and the other man. He couldn't keep eye contact with anyone.

After a few moments, Lestrade turned back with a hurt look on his face.

"You absolute bastard. How could do this to me, to the unit? How could you do this to John? We all thought you were dead, but all this time you were cheating. You cheated, Sherlock. You lied, you cheated, you hurt people who didn't deserve it. Molly, when did you find out he was alive?"

Molly shifted from one foot to the other, but Sherlock spoke before she did, "She was behind the whole thing. She faked my records, she gave me a place to stay, and she made sure no one found out until I was ready."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Lestrade's anger was incredibly apparent as he took a couple of steps away from the others and gritted his teeth, thinking. "Well, I think I have no reason to be angry." He turned back again. "You are alive, and you're here to help us, right?"

Sherlock's face twisted into a grimace. "Yes, but I need your help as well. That's why you're here."

Lestrade took a deep breath. "Now that I've gotten that out of my system…Sherlock, this is Sgt. Roman. Sgt. Roman, Sherlock Holmes."

Sgt. Roman grinned widely as he reached out his hand to shake Sherlock's. He spoke with an American accent, "Man, I thought you were cool when you were alive, but you freakin' escaped death! That's gotta be major points, right? It's genius!"

Sherlock simply smiled.

"The body is over there, when you're ready," Lestrade pointed for Sherlock after Sgt. Roman had let go of Sherlock's hand.

Lestrade, Sherlock, Molly, and Sgt. Roman made their way over to a small area marked off with CAUTION tape. There were some visitors to the forest already gathered around the edge of the crime scene. Molly found herself feeling sick when she saw the body lying on the ground underneath a tree.

"Alexandra Haywood, 16 years old. She was evidently out with her friends and strayed away. A man grabbed her, stuffed her in the back of a van, and drove off toward the woods. Sad, isn't it? Funny thing though, she's currently lying on the exact halfway point of the forest." Sgt. Roman did the briefing and stood over to the side as Sherlock and Molly joined Lestrade on the ground to get a closer look.

The poor girl was sitting upright underneath the tree, obviously staged, with identical cuts on her arms and legs. Her neck was slit as well, clearly the fatal strike, and her blood showed a path from the gruesome cut down into her shirt. The front of her shirt was also soaked in blood. Sherlock noticed bruises on her wrists, from being tied up. He tried to clear his mind to correctly consider the case, but ever since he had stopped working for the police, his mind had grown tired and cluttered. He stood.

"Well, she was brought here by the man with the van, and she was tortured somewhere else, probably in the van, before being tied to this tree and killed. There are so many cuts on her arms, it's a wonder she lasted this long, but I highly suspect she was raped very near the cuts being made, given that there is no blood on the legs of her shorts or the arms of her shirt, so her clothes were off at one point. She was obviously moved before her throat was slit because if you look closely at her arms, there is evidence of the blood having dripped, however, there is no blood under her arms and legs, as there would be if they were done here. There are blood traces on the ground under her abdomen, where the blood from the neck wound would have dripped ergo, her throat was slit here. The halfway thing is setting me off, though. I don't know what the significance of that is -"

He heard Molly gasp and turned to her. Her eyes were wide with realization and she whispered, "How far can a young girl run into a forest?"

Sherlock straightened. That's it. The riddle. This girl was somehow related to the riddle?

"We will need a proper autopsy before the final confirmation can be made and the killer can be tracked. I need to think. Lestrade, do you think you can take Molly and I back to London with you? Our cab is gone." Lestrade gave a nod.

Thirty minutes later, after Lestrade had finished giving instruction to the forensic techs and the other officers, he headed back to the police car, where Sgt. Roman, Sherlock, and Molly stood waiting. Sherlock was thankful for Lestrade's appearance, because Sgt. Roman had begun to show unequivocal interest in Molly and they had been talking/flirting for the past half-hour. They entered the car and set off.

While the three had been waiting for Lestrade by the police car, Sherlock had studied Sgt. Roman. The man was tall, just shorter than Sherlock. He was blond with high enough cheekbones. He was quite handsome and very fit. Sherlock guessed he must have been in the military at some point, he had that 'attention!' sort of look about him. Sherlock liked him so far. He was smart and helpful. He'd have to keep an eye on him, though.

The drive lasted just a bit longer than the drive to the forest, but Molly and Sherlock's cab driver had driven quite fast. Once in London, Lestrade drove straight to Molly's flat after a short explanation of where Sherlock was staying and why he was staying there. Molly and Sherlock left the car, thanking Lestrade and Sgt. Roman, and went into the flat.

"Molly, we need to let Moriarty know we solved the riddle. How did you let him know last time?"

Molly thought, "I posted the answer to the riddle on your website and I went on the News to share the answer to the murder. I think the website is still a good idea, he might be watching."

Sherlock rushed to the coffee table, but found no laptop there. He turned around to Molly, puzzled. "Where's my laptop?"

"Oh, sorry! It's still in my bedroom. I left it there during my research for the murder." She retrieved it. Sherlock typed a quick message into the box on his website and sat down on the sofa. Molly took the spot next to him.

They waited.

When the response text came, Molly had fallen asleep against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock carefully shifted so he could reach his phone in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the text.

Good, good! Now, solve the case, and while you're at it, find a nice place to stay. Just in case. All my love, JM

Moriarty had been right. The games were only beginning.

* * *

**I apologize if the ending seems chopped off. This chapter was going to be longer, but it eventually got too long and I had to shorten it.**

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I really appreciate the encouragement! :) The comments on what I write certainly do let me know what you think about what you're reading! Let me know what you think of Sgt. Roman!**

**********Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

* * *

Chapter 11

Over the next two days, there was no contact from Moriarty. Sherlock had solved the case (as Moriarty said) within eight hours: the sex offender/kidnapper was arrested the next day. Molly was trying to obey the second part of the text: _Find a nice place to stay while you're at it._ She didn't know if just any place would suffice, she suspected that it would have to be somewhere that Moriarty wouldn't be able to find them, at least not for a while.

She had no luck in finding a place she would feel safe staying at, so she called Lestrade.

"Molly? What's wrong? Are you alright?"

"Yes, we're fine. We got another message from Moriarty."

"When? What does it say?"

"We got it two days ago when we solved the riddle. It says to solve the case, which Sherlock has already done, no surprise, but the second part says to find somewhere safe to stay."

"What, like a safe house? Or just a backup living space?"

"We don't exactly know. I can't really fond a place that seems safe enough to stay with Moriarty watching our every move."

There was a pause and a few voices on the other end. Lestrade answered a question and said a few other words and gave his attention back to Molly. "So we need to find somewhere to make him think you are, and somewhere off the record to actually have you stay."

"Yes. The problem is: where would we stay so that there's a miniscule chance we'd be found?"

"Halfway through the forest?" The statement was meant to be funny, but there was no laugh in response. Lestrade cleared his throat. "You could look for a cabin or something in the middle of the forest. Then we could book a hotel on the other side of London to make it seem like you're staying there. If you get another threatening message, let me know and that's when we'll set everything up. Let Sherlock know, too. So sorry, I've got to go, there's something up. Let me know, Molly."

_Click_.

Molly sighed. She opened up Sherlock's laptop, currently not being used because Sherlock was doing something strange in her kitchen. The search began for a nice little cabin in the middle of the woods somewhere. There were many options, but Molly had a set of criteria.

They had to be close enough to London that she could return if she needed to and Lestrade could reach them quickly. They had to have separate bedrooms, that was a given with Sherlock, she thought. She was not going to spend God knows how long in a random cabin bedroom with Sherlock every night, she'd go mad! They had to have access to food supplies and a Ranger's office in case of trouble.

Molly could already feel her eyelids drooping from the boredom.

"Tea?"

Sherlock's voice behind her caused her to jolt awake and she looked up to see him standing beside her, mug in hand, smiling. It was very unlike him to make tea for her, so every time he did, she always agreed. Best to take advantage of the situation.

Sherlock pulled up a chair and leaned over her shoulder at the computer screen. Molly could smell his shampoo, so he had recently showered. She kept scrolling through the options.

"Wait!" She stopped. Sherlock pointed. "What about that one?"

An old cabin, near the edge of New Forest, where Alexandra had been found, deserted a few years ago by the previous owners. Four bedrooms, two-stories, not exactly invisible, but a good place to stay if they wanted to stay out of sight for a little bit. Molly clicked on the picture. It was nice, with a fireplace and a big kitchen.

"Okay, let me text Lestrade," Molly typed the location to Lestrade and pressed send. The reply was information on a hotel outside of town where the fake reservation would be made.

"Why is Lestrade talking to you, but not to me?"

Sherlock's question made Molly laugh. "You really don't get that?" Sherlock shook his head. "He's angry with you."

"Why?"

"You faked your death. You lied to him. He despised you before because of your incompetence and now he despises you even more because of your ignorance."

"But you helped me fake my death. Why doesn't that count against you?"

"Sherlock, you have built up almost a lifetime of bad karma. It's bound to come back and bite you in the butt."

"You don't believe in karma."

"I do now."

"Why? Because it goes against me?"

"And it seems to favor me," A slight smile.

"You know who else seems to favor you," A teasing comment.

"Who?"

"Our new friend Sgt. Roman."

Molly tried to hide a smile. She was blushing, she knew, but she couldn't help it. He was cute.

"You favor him to?"

"No…"

"Liar."

By now, Molly was turned toward Sherlock, her chair swiveled to face him as well. "How would you know?"

"That you lied? Your pinkie twitches when you lie to me."

Molly froze. "No it doesn't!"

"It just did it again!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

They stood, Sherlock slowly pushing Molly back. "No, it doesn't!"

Her back hit the wall behind her. Sherlock cornered her. He laughed to himself; her pupils were dilated, her breathing increased. He reached down and, keeping eye contact, grasped her wrist. She squirmed and glanced down to see what he was doing.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was breathy and hoarse, "Sherlock – "

"Shh."

It seemed to Sherlock that Molly stopped breathing in that moment. Her gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth. He leaned closer and moved his head to the side to whisper in her ear, "Yes, it does."

He released her wrist and headed to the kitchen to retrieve his coffee, which was surely cold by now. Molly was left, breathless, frozen, and limp against the wall. She hated him sometimes. She breathed a sigh of relief and collapsed against the couch.

Sherlock returned and sat in the chair opposite her. He had warmed his coffee and raised the mug to his lips, knowing Molly was unconsciously watching. He made a show of swiping his tongue across his lips and smirked as Molly's breath hitched.

Molly, desperate for a distraction, grabbed her book from the table beside the couch, and began to read.

Three more hours went by, and the sky outside was getting dark. Molly had finished her book and had at some point gotten up to get another. Sherlock was reading her newspaper, and had been for quite a while. Molly knew he wasn't really reading, just trying to find something to keep him from becoming bored. When dinnertime came, as announced by a rumbling of her tummy, Molly put her book down and yawned.

"Do you want anything for dinner?" She asked Sherlock. His hands jerked the paper down and he glanced at her from the paper. He shook his head, but did not look away.

"Okay, I'm going out to get Italian. If you change your mind, let me know."

A simple "Mm" was all she got as a reply. She rolled her eyes and grabbed her purse and coat before heading out the door.

When she got home, with steaming Pasta and Chicken Romano, the flat was silent, except for the hiss of the shower. She set the bag down on the kitchen counter and pulled out the hot boxes. There was something for Sherlock because she didn't think he could resist the deliciousness she'd ordered.

Almost as if on cue, the hiss was cut off and she heard thumping around in the bathroom, and a few minutes later, Sherlock's door opened and he appeared, hair still dripping, in cotton pajama pants and a solid blue t-shirt. The blue of the t-shirt was the same blue of his eyes, and they stood out more because of it.

Sherlock eyed the food and Molly. Molly laughed and nodded, "Yes, I brought some for you." Sherlock smiled and grabbed a box.

"I didn't think it sounded good until I smelled it."

He took his box and sat on the sofa. Molly followed close behind. They sat, not speaking, until their dinners were almost gone. Sherlock finished first and set his box on the table, which was becoming unusually cluttered, and leaned back. He stretched his arm back and placed it on the back of the couch and leaned against the side cushion. He looked at Molly, who was slowly but surely catching up to him.

"Are you alright?"

Molly chewed and swallowed before asking, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, Moriarty is back, again. Are you alright?"

Molly nodded in response. Sherlock approached from a different front. "Are you frightened?"

At this, Molly took a little more time. She chewed her last bite and set the box down beside his. "I'm worried, but I haven't been properly frightened yet." She turned to him. "Are you?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes."

Molly fell silent. She'd never thought she would hear Sherlock Holmes admit fear, but here he was, telling her it was so. That, and he was currently sitting on her couch, in the flat they shared. That was pretty unexpected too. "Do you think he actually means to hunt you down and kill you?"

"That was his intention last time, too. Of course I think he'll try again."

"Yes, but he wasn't very thorough last time. He didn't check and make sure you were actually dead."

"If we're looking at it that way, yes. I think – I know that this time, he will be there for himself. He will make sure I am thoroughly and truly dead this time. He sees this as a game, and he needs to be one hundred percent sure that I lose."

Molly hesitated. "Does he mean to kill me too?"

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. He didn't want her to be frightened, but he needed to make her understand that her life was in grave danger and would be for a long time now. He tried to explain as gently as possible. "He knows that you helped me. He knows that somehow you've changed me. I doubt if you'll get out of this with any lack of permanent damage, mental or physical."

Molly understood. She nodded. "So…what is he waiting for?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why not just kill us now?"

"He's bored. He and I are similar in that way. We get bored very easily. He remedies his boredom with entertainment. His favorite form of entertainment is to watch others suffer. He's a psychopath. He told me, 'the games have just begun'. He wants me to suffer. He wants to see me run to the edge of sanity and eventually jump off and become like him. Then, when I become like him and become predictable and boring again, he will kill me."

"Does he expect me to jump with you?"

"I hope not."

"Does that mean we're just sitting now, waiting for him to tell us to start running?"

"Yes."

Sherlock's cell phone dinged.

* * *

**AHAHAHA! I have left you with yet another CLIFFHANGER!**

**I decided that since it is the last day of Spring Break, I shall reward you all with this long and ominous chapter before school starts up again. The updates will become less frequent, I'm afraid, but that's only because this week I sat and did nothing except write fanfiction and compose. So, thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I am absolutely psyched because I am almost to 50 reviews and 4000 views (hint, hint)!**

**Enjoy!**

**************Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

**I sincerely apologize for the wait and the short chapter. There is an explanation at the end of this chapter.**

**Enjoy!**

Chapter 12

Sherlock's phone dinged.

Molly and Sherlock froze.

The screen lit up and announced the arrival of a text message. Sherlock slowly reached for the phone as if it were poison or might explode at any point. He clicked the home button and slid his finger across the bottom of the screen. The text popped up. Molly leaned in to read the text.

Hello Sherlock. Congratulations. You have proven your intelligence once again. However, while your intelligence will help you against me, you must prove your sanity.

One word: Run.

Sherlock leaned back and took a deep breath. It was time.

Six hours later, Sherlock and Molly were arriving at the cabin in the woods. Lestrade had already taken care of their 'reservations' at the hotel in London. They would take this step by step, and proceed with the utmost precaution. Moriarty had finally delivered his last threat and would begin to hunt for Sherlock. The games had begun.

The cabin was as spacious as it had seemed online, although there was more furniture than two people could need. Molly didn't care; she just cared if there were beds in the bedrooms. It was the middle of the night, actually the morning, and Molly was exhausted. When Lestrade escorted the two of them to the cabin, he immediately dismissed Molly and she picked the smaller bedroom on the first floor and slipped into bed, not even changing clothes.

Lestrade hadn't wasted time there, he wasn't supposed to draw attention to them, so he gave Sherlock a gun (Sherlock's had been confiscated by John even before his 'death') and said goodbye, promising someone would be there in the morning to be something like a guard. He slipped out as quietly as he could.

Sherlock took the opportunity to look around the cabin and become familiar with his surroundings. That was always a good idea.

The downstairs was very large. The front door opened to reveal a large living space with a fireplace and a couch facing the fireplace. There were tables and plants all over the place, and Sherlock grinned. Plants were fun to destroy. The back of the living space was connected to a breakfast nook and beside that was a monstrous kitchen. _Plenty of space to store any dead animals or people…_ The kitchen was finished off with a door to a mudroom and then a back door. Off to the side of the living space, there were three doors; two led to bedrooms and one to a bathroom in between. To the left of the bedroom closest to the kitchen, there was a small staircase. Past the doors was a hallway that ended in a window. On either side of the window was a room. The one to the right was a guest bedroom and the other was a simple and small room with a chair in the corner and bookcases full of books opposite. Sherlock left the room and headed upstairs. Upstairs, the stairs wrapped around two more bedrooms and a bathroom in between, identical to the layout downstairs, and there was a balcony in front of the upstairs rooms that overlooked the living space. Sherlock folded his arms on the railing and surveyed the scene below. He couldn't see the kitchen fully from where he was. He had a limited view of the front yard, but only because the curtains were closed. He turned and headed back downstairs, yawning.

Sherlock had been tired lately and he didn't know why. Ever since the night he had spent in Molly's bedroom, he had wanted to sleep every night. He always woke up refreshed and ready to tackle anything. He looked around the downstairs again and opened the door to Molly's temporary bedroom and slid inside. He closed it as silently as he could and tiptoed across the room.

Molly was facing away from him, sound asleep. He lifted the covers and lay down with his back facing Molly's.

He slept like a rock. Not even when the front door opened the next morning and someone entered the cabin did he awake.

**Okay, explanation. I did struggle with this chapter, because there was going to be a lot more to it, and it was going to be a better start to the whole action portion of the story, but I got back from Spring Break and had homework! And writer's black! Yay! And then I got Tendonitis in my hand, so my hand has been in a brace for about six days now. I am also officially a performed composer, my orchestra played my song! Yay!**

**But anyway, thank you guys so much for reading! And thank you for the 50 reviews (whoever the guest was that posted the 50th review!) They absolutely do keep me going.**

******Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

**This chapter starts out with a rape scene, so if you would prefer not to read that, skip to the line.**

Chapter 13

Molly opened her eyes. She smelt something peculiar, almost poison. She tried to reach over to scratch the itch on her nose, but her hand was tied to the bedpost and she could not move. _Wait, I'm in my apartment, in my own bedroom. I'm not in the cabin?_ She glanced wildly around, looking for an explanation.

The only answer she got was from the door of her bedroom, and it was absolutely _not_ the answer she wanted. The door swung slowly on its hinges, revealing a very sophisticated looking dark-haired man. He grinned foxily at her and looked down at his hands. There was an object in his left hand, but it was hidden to Molly because in his right hand, he held a cloth, and was cleaning the object.

"Molly, you are quite the fighter. You've almost ripped your bonds!" He said mockingly. His voice had changed. It wasn't the usual soft and luring voice he usually had, it was low and feral, but also sad and pitiful. "I'll have to get that fixed afterward."

Molly watched as he stepped across the room and slipped off his shoes before sitting on the edge of the bed. He put down the object, which was wrapped in the cloth, and placed one hand on either side of her hips. She breathed in sharply as she realized she wasn't wearing anything but a long t-shirt. No trousers, no bra, not even knickers underneath.

Her breathing got even quicker as he _sniffed_ his way up her body, until his face hovered over hers. She tried to press her head back into the pillows as far as she could. The poisonous smell was his cologne. She held her breath for as long as possible, but he sat there, face inches over hers, letting her choke on the vapors.

When she had finally become slightly used to the smell, he smiled, showing teeth, and leaned down, diverting at the last second to place his mouth by her ear. She waited with baited breath, for him to speak.

"Oh, Molly. I'm going to enjoy this so much," were his last words before his tongue snaked out and brushed her ear. She shivered, for the feeling was sickening. Where was the kind man she once knew? Where was the sweet friend she had told her problems to? He was gone, and this vile serpent, this monster now possessed his body.

She closed her eyes as his attention departed from her ear and studied her face before raking his eyes down her body. When Molly felt the weight on the bed shift, she opened her eyes to see him pull his knees up onto the bed with the rest of his body as he positioned himself between her legs, which were also bound to the bed by the ankles.

He glanced up again and caught her frightened and helpless gaze with his own hungry and derisive one before grabbing the hem of her shirt gently and bringing it up her body. He had to leave it in the middle of her torso because the ties around her wrists prevented it from being removed, but after the cotton was out of the way, he leaned down and licked a line from her right knee to her navel. Molly closed her eyes again and leaned her head back on the pillow, trying to ignore the wet muscle drawing patterns on her skin. She tightened, however, when he blew on the wet areas and chilled her. He picked up the object on the bed and brought it close to his face to inspect it. Molly's eyes grew wide with fear when she saw the slight glimpse of light on the blade of a large kitchen knife. He brought it to her stomach and began to very lightly trace shapes around her abdomen.

She couldn't believe this was happening. He had promised once that he would protect her, but then again, he never was the man she thought he was. He was a liar, a cheat, and he treated everyone, well, almost everyone, like garbage. She had once loved him, but now, she knew that was not true anymore. He was not worthy of her love, not even her respect.

The mattress shifted again, and he moved so that his face was once again over Molly's, but at some point, he had shed his own clothes and his hips were now aligned with hers. He licked his lips and growled, "Open your eyes, Molly. I want to see your pain." When Molly didn't comply, he reached a hand up and slapped her. Molly's eyes shot open, and tears began to crowd out of her eyes.

He pushed inside and Molly tried not to let him know her pain. She bit her lip so hard it bled. "Stop," she pleaded. Her voice was almost inaudible.

He paused for a second and brought the knife under her neck. "Say my name, Molly."

Molly hesitated as she could feel the blade digging into her skin and he shoved his hips into her harder. "Jim! Stop, please!" She could do nothing. She was completely helpless. He angled his hips and she cried out, hating him for the laugh that escaped his mouth.

* * *

His horrid laugh rang in her ears as she sprang awake and sat up suddenly. Thank God! She was in the cabin, it was early morning, and Sherlock lay beside her, suddenly awake as well. Wait, Sherlock was beside her? She turned to him and opened her mouth to speak, but he spoke first.

"Are you alright?" He looked genuinely concerned.

Molly replied, "I'll be fine."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Molly wanted to say no, but she wanted to say yes, but she didn't – She burst into tears and Sherlock reached over and wrapped his arms around her. She was scared, he could tell. He needed to be there for her. "Tell me what happened," he offered.

"Ji – Moriarty raped me. Simple as that." Molly was shivering.

"Are you scared?" Sherlock asked cautiously. Molly, now facing away from Sherlock, smiled to herself. Of course she wasn't afraid! Sherlock was there to protect her. She contemplated telling him so, but wanted to make sure he wouldn't react in a bad way.

He could fall silent, he could leave, or he could never talk to her again, although with the circumstances, that wouldn't work well for anyone. He could also react positively to her confession…

Oh heck, she could take this risk.

"No, because you'll keep me safe," she said without turning around. Silence overtook the room. For a second, Molly dreaded that she had been right about a negative reaction, but after a minute, the bed shifted and Molly felt Sherlock drawing closer.

He swallowed and hesitated before speaking. "Do you really believe that I can keep you safe?" Molly nodded as Sherlock placed his forehead in the crook between her shoulder and her neck.

"You are the bravest and smartest man I know. Of course you can keep me safe," her voice sounded breathy and unsure.

"Moriarty is after me."

Molly said nothing. She knew that, but she felt like she was safe. He was there to make sure Moriarty couldn't hurt her. That's why she knew her dream would never happen. Sherlock was smart, much smarter than Moriarty, so his tricks weren't a big threat. However, Moriarty was much more persistent than Sherlock and could keep going longer than Sherlock could. Even with Sherlock's brother, Moriarty also had a lot more connections with other people, and had the connections to get more connections.

"Moriarty is after me, and he will stop at nothing to kill me for real this time." Sherlock's voice faltered and Molly realized he was afraid. "I will die, Molly. Whether it be by Moriarty's hand, or because I starved to death waiting, I will die. It is inevitable." He paused and lifted his head. "Why do you think I can keep you safe?"

Molly turned her head to find him looking directly at her. She smiled. "Because you did last time."

Sherlock said nothing. They sat, staring at each other, silent. Molly studied Sherlock's expression. She saw a mix of emotions including fear and sorrow, and regret. He regretted something more than she could understand from simply looking in his eyes. His eyes also held the same fire she had seen before his 'death'. The same fire that came out when a case was caught or a murder was solved. She saw the determination of a man trying to win a game. She saw the curiosity of a three-year-old. She saw the maturity of a professional or a government worker. She saw – her study was cut suddenly when his eyes shifted down to her mouth. He leaned closer, slowly, building anticipation. Molly's breathing became audible, and her lips slightly parted. Her eyes flicked between his eyes and his mouth. She could feel his breath on her lips. She closed her eyes –

There was a knock on the door, catching Sherlock's attention. The spell was broken as he whipped his head to the door. Molly closed her mouth and tried to clear her head of the fuzz of the previous moment. By now, Sherlock was out of bed, and Molly took a second to laugh to herself at his clothes from the day before, wrinkled and creased in odd places. He grabbed the door handle and slowly twisted it. Through the crack under the door, Molly could see the shadow of a person.

Sherlock pulled the door open to reveal an innocent looking Sgt. Roman. He smiled at Sherlock and poked his head inside of the room to smile at Molly, who smiled back, noticing how young he looked today.

"I made pancakes!"

**Hello chickadees! Sorry for the wait again! I had a school retreat last week (best week ever!) and I sprained my ankle. I am falling apart physically, so writing has been good. I reward you for your wait with a longer chapter!**

******Thank you all for the reviews! They are amazing and helpful, and I love seeing what my readers think!**

******Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

Chapter 14

"And the trick right here, is to wait until all of the little bubbles of batter are popped, because that means that the top is perfectly browned. Then, the pancake isn't too dry, but it's cooked all the way through."

Sgt. Roman had quite a very lulling voice, Molly noted as she avidly listened to his lesson on perfecting pancakes. His American accent was hinted with a Southern twang, just the slightest difference, which Molly really liked. She liked his laugh, too. As he handed her the pancake paddle and instructed her to slide it under the browned cake, she grimaced and laughed along with him as the pancake was flipped and landed beside the griddle, not on it.

He grinned and reached around her to pick up the pancake, juggling the hot food between hands to cool it off. He tore it in half and stuffed one half in his own mouth and held the other half in front of her. She leaned forward to take a bite, but he pulled it away and it joined the other half in his mouth. Molly rolled her eyes and took the other pancakes off of the griddle.

Sherlock watched nearby at the kitchen table. He laughed to himself when Molly failed at flipping the pancake correctly, but immediately turned his attention back to Sgt. Roman. He still didn't know enough about this new detective. He seemed trustworthy and eager about his job, as well as about Molly…

Speaking of Molly, she joined him at the table, choosing the chair to his right, and Sgt. Roman took the chair just to her right, across from Sherlock. He smiled and pushed the plate towering with pancakes toward Sherlock, trying to look tempting. It worked, and Sherlock snatched a pancake before the plate was bombarded by an obviously hungry Molly. She placed four pancakes in the center of her plate, decorated the top with a small pat of butter, and christened the stack with syrup. The sweet dish began to disappear as Sherlock spoke to Sgt. Roman.

"Sgt. Roman -"

"Ian, please."

"Ian. How long have you worked beside Lestrade?"

Ian chewed and swallowed before replying. _Good manners._ "About three months. Not that long, really."

And you do Sgt. Donavon's job now?"

"Sort of. I mainly do work for Lestrade because we got along so well, but yeah, I do the same thing Sally does, you know?" _Sally. First name terms._ "I guess you could say I'm like the go-fer slash detective. Haven't been on any really amazing cases yet, but I'm working towards it." _Ambitious._ "How long have you worked for Greg?"

Sherlock noticed the second-long falter in Molly's chewing as she looked over at him, anxious to hear his answer, his explanation. "Well, quite a while, actually. When I was younger, I was a lot more – _foolish_ – I suppose, but Lestrade helped me out of some things. He noticed my potential and hired me. Sort of. Then a few months ago, something happened, and that's why we're here."

"What happened?"

Sherlock hesitated. He really didn't want to share information like this with someone as – _unaware_ – of their situation as Sgt. Roman – Ian was. However, he complied when Molly's face showed interest. Even she didn't know everything and he felt like she should. "Well, a very good…_friend_…contacted me and told me he owed me something. It turns out he wanted to kill me, so I faked my death in order to get him to kill himself as well. He faked his death to get me to kill myself, so we're both still alive, and he is still chasing us – he's still chasing me."

"Sounds dangerous."

"It is." Sherlock finished his pancake slowly, thinking. "Why are you here, Ian?"

"Greg sent me. He said that y'all were out here and that you might need some help, so I volunteered to come guard you." He flashed a smile, mainly at Molly. "Nothing's gonna happen to either of you."

"So you don't know anything about this case?" Ian shook his head. "You only know you're protecting two strangers to you."

A nod, then, "but Greg knows you, and I trust him."

"Why?"

A pause, almost as if Ian wasn't sure if that was a real question. He took his time answering. "When I was younger, I got into some…not so safe situations, and Lestrade arrested me, but saw my potential and inquired after my opinion on a case one day. After that, it sort of became a given that I would help the police."

Ian seemed satisfied with that answer and nodded approvingly. "Well, it's nice to know I have your trust. I'll do dishes," he volunteered, offering to take Molly's plate. She complied, smiling back and getting up to get Sherlock's plate.

"Thank you."

His response caught Molly off guard and she stopped a moment to glance up at his face. He looked serious.

"Your welcome." She smiled before picking up his plate and taking it to Ian.

Sherlock only smiled to himself.

**Hello wonderful readers! I hope you enjoyed! I will be updating soon because this was supposed to be a much longer chapter, but I realized that I hadn't updated in a while, so I posted this (part 1) and soon will be posting the next chapter (part 2). Thank you all for the wonderful reviews, they are keeping me going!**

**********Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

**This is the second part of the previous chapter. Sorry for the wait, but I have rewarded you all with...**

**A RIDDLE!**

Chapter 15

Soon, Molly, Ian, and Sherlock were all sitting in the living area, enjoying the peace and quiet. Molly had persuaded Ian to play a card game with her, and he was currently trying to teach her the rules of Gin Rummy.

"You have to get a set of three, a set of three, and a set of four."

"And I can get a run, like 2, 3, 4, 5?" Asked Molly.

"Only if they're in the same suit."

Sherlock took this valuable time to sit behind Molly and get a clear view of Ian. Part of him really liked Ian, he was an honest and cheery guy, but Sherlock still had to admit he didn't know that much about him, so he decided to deduce his way.

Long-ish light brown hair, closer to blonde. Nice face, he smiles a lot. Freckles only around the nose, dimples, blue eyes, slim face, square shoulders, straight posture: army service, attentive fingers, worn with use, muscular pointer finger on right hand: frequent gun use, long legs, full height: 5'11-6'0, perfectly balanced feet, no fallen-in arches. Deduction reveal a nicely toned man, mid-thirties, back from army service, out in the field, though I have no idea what he's back for.

Sherlock finished his study and sat back against the back of the couch, satisfied. He had somehow acquired a protective pose around Molly; she was nestled in between his legs, with her back against the couch as well. Ian sat across the coffee table from her, laughing constantly at her card-playing skills. She would constantly drop cards and while reaching down to pick them up, she would show Ian the rest of her cards accidentally. When Ian laid out his cards, a hand of QQQ – 444 – 10JQK, Molly sat, mouth open in surprise, and threw her own cards down on the table.

She turned suddenly, "Sherlock, come play with us!"

Sherlock tried to shake his head, but Molly was relentless and succeeded in pulling him down by the arm and seating him to her left. Ian grinned at the newest player, and began to deal the cards. Sherlock seized an opportunity.

"How long were you in the army, Ian?"

Ian didn't falter as he answered, "12 years, since I got out of school."

"What did you go to school for?"

There was a slight side-smile before the answer, "A schoolteacher."

Sherlock caught Molly smiling out of the corner of his eye and asked, "What level did you want to teach?"

Ian dealt the last card, "Didn't care, really. I just knew I wanted to be like my dad. He was in the army first, but I didn't want to be. Then he died, and I decided it might be better to go into the army."

"And then you became a detective?"

A nod, "Yeah, when I came back, I saw a detective at work once, and I loved what I saw. Didn't really think about it, just gave up a budding career and switched over."

Molly drew a card. "What did you want to be as a kid?" She discarded.

Ian followed, "An airline pilot." Discard.

Sherlock kept his eyes locked on Ian's face throughout the game, and this time, when he laid out his cards, Ian looked surprised as well. "How'd you do that? No one's ever beaten me at this game!"

Sherlock shrugged and held up his hand when Molly shuffled the cards. "I'm out."

She tried to persuade him, but he refused. Suddenly, Ian's phone went off. _How deep is your love? I really need to learn, cause were living in a world of fools…_ Ian excused himself and went out back to answer his phone. Sherlock's eyes followed him. He suspected it was Lestrade; Ian seemed to be friendly and familiar with the other person.

Molly was shuffling the deck over and over again, waiting for Ian to come back. Sherlock leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes.

A few minutes passed and Ian was back inside, "Sorry guys! My boss." He held up the phone. Sherlock smiled at his intelligence.

They spent the next three hours playing card games together, eventually Sherlock joined in again, and at noon, they took a break to eat lunch. While they enjoyed the egg-salad sandwiches provided by Ian (as was the ingredients for breakfast that morning), another call came. Ian answered again, this time staying inside.

"Hello? Yes sir. We are all super! Oh, all right. I'll be right over." He hung up the phone and picked up his dish, finishing off his sandwich. "Lestrade. He wants me to come over for a case. I plan to be back this evening, but if I'm not, you'll be all right on your own?"

Sherlock and Molly nodded. Without another word, Ian grabbed his bag from the door as Sherlock took his and Molly's plates and washed them. He vaguely heard Ian's voice from outside, "Oh, sorry, man!" Before there was an engine starting up and fading away, but another sound came.

There was a knock on the door.

Molly was in the living area, so she jumped up to open it. Sherlock joined her. There was a postage man standing outside of the door, a manila envelope in hand. He held it out to Molly, who took it and he left. Not a word, he just left.

Molly shut the door and looked at Sherlock. "Did you -?"

Sherlock shook his head, confused, and took the package. He ripped open the top and pulled out another envelope, this one white with black calligraphy on one side: _Sherlock Holmes._

He slowly slipped his pointer finger under the flap and slid it all the way to the other side. Inside was a folded up piece of notebook paper. He unfolded it, setting the envelopes on the table beside the door, and read the note out loud.

"Dearest Sherlock, I have another riddle for you. Better hope you don't scare these ones like the others.

I am lost.

Can you find me?

My brother is smart.

He scatters bread by the way.

He tried to lead us out, but this is not the way.

Help me! The old woman does not!

I am lost!

With all my love,

~M"

Molly looked even more confused. She read over the note again, mouthing the words. "I don't understand…"

"I do," said Sherlock.

**My word, this fanfiction has gotten quite popular! Thank you all for the reviews, they are absolutely heart-warming and they certainly keep me going. Might be a while for the next chapter, but I will try to get it up before Iron Man 3 comes out.**

******Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

**If you do not do well with graphic explanations of bloody situations, there are little squigglies (~) near the end. That is the only graphic part. I would rate those two paragraphs M for safety reasons.**

'You do?' Molly asked. 'What is it?'

'Hansel and Gretel, or just Gretel, rather. Moriarty has used this one before.'

Molly nodded. Of course Sherlock could get the riddle within seconds of recovering it. She watched his furrowed brow, waiting for something else. What? She didn't know.

'There has to be something else. Where do we find this girl?' Sherlock continued. 'The other two related to real-life cases as well, so what does this one point to?"

'Well, it said, 'I am lost, can you find me?' Then it said the old woman does not. Maybe she is in a cabin or a house nearby and there is an older woman there who cannot help her? Is there an older woman who lives in these woods?' Molly asked, thinking aloud. She suddenly realized something and turned to Sherlock, who looked impressed, with a look of dread. 'Sherlock, M! That's Moriarty!' Sherlock nodded. 'He knows where we are hiding out!'

Sherlock's face straightened out and he blinked, the gears in his head trying to think of someway to disprove that. There was no possible way.

Molly asked another question, 'No, it can't be Moriarty. He's dead, right?'

Remembering how he had told Molly her traumatic experience was a dream, Sherlock sat her down and began to explain. 'Do you remember the 'dream' you had? Where Moriarty came to tell you a riddle?' Molly nodded. 'It...wasn't a dream. I lied to you to try and keep you safe, but he is still alive. He is still trying to kill me."

Molly was in shock. Sherlock had lied to her, Moriarty was still alive and trying to kill Sherlock, and she couldn't do anything about it. 'So it is him?' Another nod.

'Most likely. I think your suggestion for checking who else lives in these woods is a good idea. Molly, I want you to stay here. If I find anything, I'll wait until Ian gets back, then he can stay with you.'

Molly began to protest, but Sherlock stopped her. He sat down by her and pulled out his phone. He began to search for anyone else.

After around two and a half hours, he found something. An old couple lived about a mile away from the cabin where the two of them were staying, not well-known, quite odd folks. Molly had fallen asleep beside him, but he quietly called Lestrade.

'Lestrade, it's me. When is Ian-Sgt. Roman coming back?'

From the other line, Lestrade paused to answer another question, then answered, 'he should be back any second.'

As if on cue, the front door opened and Ian walked in. Molly, startled, awoke and rubbed her eyes. She grinned at Ian, who smiled back. Sherlock thanked Lestrade and turned to speak to Ian.

'Could you take me somewhere and come back to keep Molly safe?' Ian nodded, after a second of confusion and trying to orientate himself. He still wasn't used to this house.

'Where is it you want to go?'

'We received another riddle after you'd left. The answer was Gretel.'

'What, like from the fairy tales? Awesome story!'

Sherlock gave a slight look of disdain. 'Yes, well, there is a suspicious area of where this girl might be. I'm going to check it out.'

'All right!' Ian was all for saving people. 'Let's not waste any more time, let's head out there now!' He opened the door again and led the other two out to the car. The doors opened and closed, seat-belts were buckled, Sherlock gave instructions, and within five minutes, he was standing in front of a small cabin. He instructed Ian to take Molly back to their cabin and stay there until he called. Ian obeyed and grabbed Molly's arm to pull her back to the car, but Molly did something a bit surprising first.

She rushed to Sherlock and threw her arms around his neck. It took him a second, but Sherlock responded by placing his arms around her waist. 'Be careful.' She whispered. Then she was gone. Sherlock watched as the car pulled away, then proceeded up to the house.

He stepped onto the porch and knocked.

No answer, so he knocked again.

Again, no answer, so he pushed the door open.

The door opened smoothly and he stepped into the cabin's main room. Immediately he smelled rot. Once the door was open, he could see plainly why.

"You've never been outside of England?" Ian and Molly were currently sitting on the couch, laughing.

Molly shook her head. "The only time my mum was outside of England is when she fell into the English Channel!"

Ian giggled, "How is that even possible?" Molly shrugged and they both collapsed onto one another in a hysterical fit of giggles. Molly didn't even remember how the conversation had gotten started, something about pancake-flipping mishaps. Now he was leaning against the arm of the couch and she was practically laying across him.

"You are incredibly funny..." She breathed, trying to maintain a steady heartbeat.

"You're not so bad yourself..." Ian answered in the same breathy tone. He sighed and reached down to stroke her hair. Molly noticed and became rigid. When she realized he was doing it out of affection, she relaxed into his touch.

They'd sat for a little while, not speaking, when Ian asked, "Tell me about yourself, Molly."

Molly had, in truth, not told him anything about herself since she had met him, and thought it was a reasonable explanation. "Well, there's really not that much to tell. I work at Bart's Hospital, I am a pathologist, I have a cat. That's pretty much it."

Ian sat up, causing Molly to do the same. "No, I mean what are your interests, your likes, your dislikes? Tell me about _you_."

Molly took a moment to think before responding, "I like cats..." Ian laughed. "I don't like being cold. I like a good cuppa tea, and a nice book to go along with it. I like taking walks in London and seeing all of the different people and acting like Sherlock and trying to deduce things about their lives. I don't like it, however, when he deduces things about me." When she looked over, Ian was smiling at her. "I like nice boys and movie dates and cuddling…" Molly broke off, realizing what she had just said. She turned slightly away to keep Ian from seeing her blush.

She felt the couch cushion shift and turned to see Ian scooting closer. He wrapped his arms around her and placed his chin on her shoulder. "You like cuddling?"

Molly giggled. "Possibly."

Ian inched closer and whispered in her ear, "So do I…"

Molly shivered. She could feel his hot breath on her ear and braced herself for him to tickle her ear. He nuzzled her ear with his nose and –

_How deep is your love? I really need to learn, cause were living in a world of fools…_

"I am so sorry," Ian mumbled. He pulled away, leaving Molly unsatisfied and disappointed. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone. Sighing, he stood, answering and disappearing down the hallway. Molly could hear his voice, but it was inaudible. She sat, alone on the couch, severely confused. She had confessed a part of her, which made Ian draw closer. She admitted that she did in fact like him, so she supposed that was okay. Maybe they could finish their conversation later.

"Yes, boss, I will be right over." Ian finished and came back in. He looked at Molly with an apologetic look. "I am so sorry, Molly. You know that cabin we dropped Sherlock off at? Well, evidently something happened and Lestrade is there."

"Something happened? Is Sherlock okay?" Molly freaked out and stood up.

"Yes, Sherlock is fine. He's the one who called it in."

"Let's go!" She pulled his arm and practically dragged him out of the door, locking it behind them and toward the car. They both hopped in and headed for the crime scene.

At the crime scene, Sherlock stood, chewing on his fingernails, staring at the door. He had promised Lestrade he wouldn't go farther than the threshold of the door, and he had kept that promise so far. He honestly didn't want to go past the threshold because of the smell itself. When Lestrade arrived, with Ian's familiar truck close behind, Sherlock immediately dreaded the thought of entering the cabin. Something awful had obviously happened inside and he really didn't want to find out what.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" Lestrade called over. Sherlock replied, "Don't know yet. I walked in the door and couldn't handle the smell so I called you."

"Murder?"

"I would suppose so."

"And what of this Gretel business?" Lestrade had heard, then. It was probably Ian who had told him.

"That's what I've been wondering. I don't know if there is anyone alive in there, so I don't know what we'll find."

Lestrade nodded and called his team over. Anderson gave Sherlock a sideways glance, almost pitying, as he walked by.

"Sherlock!" Molly's voice called for his attention. He turned to see Ian and Molly rushing up to him. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock nodded, "I thought I told you to stay at the cabin!"

"Ian got the call from Lestrade and we came right over. I was worried!" She finished when he gave her a 'really?' look.

Sherlock turned to the cabin. Lestrade was waiting for him. He took a deep breath before opening the door again, releasing the horrid stench into the outside air. He held his nose and stepped inside. The light from behind him and through the windows revealed the horror inside.

Blood was the first noticeable thing. It lay still in pools scattered on the wood floor and ran in little rivulets from puddle to puddle. The less noticeable, or rather, less _identifiable_ thing was the carnage. There were arms, legs, feet, torsos, and heads lying around in the pools of blood. Sherlock came close to vomiting at the sickening sight.

Humans, desecrated – no, shredded – laying on the hard and cold floor. The eyes were still open, and the mouths open in fear. Sherlock couldn't tell how many bodies were there, maybe twelve, maybe more. Just cold, dead corpses.

Sherlock looked around. There were no older people, he couldn't tell why the riddle would mention an old woman. Then he look against the wall and saw the most sickening sight. An old woman sat against the wall, eyes open, unmoving, dead. She was different from the rest, maybe because her face looked almost peaceful.

But it wasn't the old woman that sickened Sherlock, it was the little girl huddled next to her. The little girl was alive, and she was shivering. She watched Sherlock with big, frightened eyes, ready to cry.

Quietly, slowly, Sherlock made his way over to her, weaving around the dead on the floor, and kneeled in front of her. She tried to press herself into the wall, to disappear. She looked thin, Sherlock noted.

"Hello. My name is Sherlock." The little girl remained silent. Sherlock continued, "We are here to help you. I'm going to help you get out." A nod. Sherlock leaned forward, and keeping eye contact, lifted the little girl and turned to leave. She buried her head in Sherlock's shoulder and let out a whimper. Sherlock took a step forward, cringing as he felt and heard the blood slosh as his shoe came in contact with it. Lestrade stood at the door, traumatized by the repulsive scene before him. He saw Sherlock and offered to take the girl as Sherlock came out, but Sherlock refused to give her up.

Molly came running up to him when he came out. "What happened in there?"

Sherlock shook his head. "You don't want to know."

The little girl squirmed in his arms, and Molly covered her mouth with her hands and began to cry. At the sound, the little girl began to cry as well, and Sherlock peeled away from the police, hushing the child and patting her back.

"It's going to be all right. I've got you."

Back at the crime scene, Lestrade's forensics team took pictures and evidence while Lestrade watched Sherlock walk a little way off with the girl in his arms. Molly and Ian stood beside him, Ian had his arms around Molly to comfort her, and Ian turned to her, "Are you alright?"

Molly nodded, but inside, she shook her head. She wasn't all right. That little girl had to live with the horror of that scene imprinted in her mind for the rest of her life.

She buried her head in Ian's chest and cried.

**See? I was good! I got another chapter done! Thank you all for the support, you are making me feel extremely successful, and I love that you all love this fanfiction!**

******Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

**Short chapter, but filled with little 'aw!' Moments. :)**

Chapter 17

'All right, let's pack it up here!' Lestrade instructed his team. People flooded from the cabin and back to cars, trucks, SUVs. Sherlock stood by Molly, still holding the little girl in his arms, but she had fallen asleep some time ago.

Ian talked to Lestrade about the girl, about what would happen to her. 'She doesn't have a place to go. We don't know who she is. What do we do?'

Lestrade looked over to Sherlock and the girl in his arms. He smiled at the adorable sight. Sherlock was doing the mommy-rock, rocking side to side, and it looked like he was...singing? He stepped over to him and confirmed his theory. Sherlock Holmes was singing to the little girl.

'How would you feel about taking care of her tomorrow? At least until we can find out who she is.' Molly watched as Sherlock's face went from shocked to uncertain to excited.

'Could I?' His face brightened up considerably. Molly hid a smile.

'No experiments.' Lestrade commanded.

Sherlock stood straight and used his right hand to salute the DI. 'Yes sir!'

'All right. Well that was easy.' Lestrade walked off, joining his team.

Ian gestured to his truck. 'Shall we?' Molly and Sherlock nodded. Sherlock got into the backseat of the truck and placed the girl carefully in the seat next to him. Ian opened the door for Molly and then jumped into the driver's seat.

They drove back to the cabin as the sun went down and it began to at dark. Sherlock constantly looked down at the little girl, just to make sure she was there. She made him think of a school incident from his past, the day a little girl had been hit by a car outside of his school. He had cried so much. He had taken the responsibility of taking care of her and finding out who she was.

Now Sherlock felt the same responsibility and he was determined not to fail her.

Back at the cabin, because the girl was already exhausted and it was dark outside, Sherlock took her straight to one of the downstairs bedrooms. No doubt she would have nightmares, and Sherlock wanted to be there for her.

He placed her in the big bed, kissed her forehead, and backed toward the doorway.

'Don't leave me!' She cried, suddenly looking more afraid, as if Sherlock would strike her at any moment. He frowned and pulled a chair up to the side of her bed. He grabbed her hand and she turned to face him. He smiled.

'I will _never_ leave you.' He squeezed the little hand in his own. '_Ever.'_

Molly yawned. The sun had woken her, smiling in through the window. She stretched, noticing the emptiness in the bed beside her. Sherlock had slept with her every night since her nightmare, but he hadn't shown up at all last night

She yawned again and pushed the covers aside, bidding herself to stand. She felt lightheaded and almost decided against getting up at all, but thought of Sherlock and proceeded out the door and down the hall. She pushed open the door and smiled.

Sherlock's clothes resembled her own, rumpled, tired, and his hair stood up in all sorts of odd places. His head was lying on the bed, the rest of him was in the chair beside the bed. He was holding the little girl's hand. She was still sound asleep, with a peaceful look on her face.

Molly placed her hands on Sherlock's shoulders and whispered, 'Sherlock?' He didn't reply, so she shook him a little and said a bit louder, 'Sherlock?' He groaned and rolled his head over to blink his eyes halfway open. She helped him stand and guided him to the kitchen; he was too exhausted and still asleep, and couldn't quite manage basic tasks such as processing that walking into, say, a wall was not the best way to get into the kitchen.

Molly sat him down at the kitchen table, where he slumped his head on his arm. She prepared a mug of hot coffee and pushed it in front of him. He lifted his head and looked in confusion at the cup in his line of limited and blurry sight.

'Wha's this?' He mumbled.

'Coffee...' Molly responded, trying not to laugh. He inhaled deeply and sat up enough to bring the mug to his nose and take a sniff. Satisfied, he took a sip.

'Have you found out her name?' Molly asked once Sherlock seemed at least a bit more awake she received a headshake no as a reply.

'She's afraid. Tha's all I know.' Sherlock's words still slurred, but not as much. 'We need to find her family.'

'Why do you care?' Molly dared.

Sherlock gave her a look of surprise, almost like a kicked puppy. 'She's frightened, she witnessed a lot of gore, I feel bad.'

'But why? That's not you!'

'When I was young, a girl was assaulted and scarred. I didn't do anything to help her. I felt bad then. The difference now is...' He paused, 'I'm not a coward anymore.'

'You're going to help her then?'

'Of course. I'll call Lestrade later today. We need to find her parents. She needs to see a psychologist right away.'

He stood and began to pace around the living room. Molly just sat back and watched.

******Hello Chickadees! Wonderful to see you! Thanks for following, for reading, for reviewing, for loving meee!**

******Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

**Finally, we get some Sebastian and Moriarty time!**

'Sebby!'

Sebastian Moran lifted his head from the couch and shifted so he could see where the voice was coming from, but he didn't answer. Big mistake.

'SEBASTIAN!' The voice was angry now.

Sebastian sighed, 'Yes, Jim?'

He watched as Jim appeared around the corner, shirtless. 'Morning, Sebby.' His voice was normal again. Sebastian grunted in reply. He covered his face with his arm, exhausted. The last few days had been filled with strenuous activities: going grocery shopping for Jim, monitoring executions, monitoring Sherlock and Molly and their /stupid, /pathetic little friend. And now, the girl was at the cabin, and he had another moron to supervise not that he thought the girl would be any trouble, but come on! A little girl? Jim couldn't be any more insane.

He listened as Jim rustled around the kitchen, pulling something from the cabinet. He dreaded the next conversation.

'So, Sebby. How is our little project going?'

Sebastian thought of how to reply. 'They're becoming obsessed with the game.'

'Good!' The characteristic voice inflection made Seb laugh to himself. /Yep, insanity.

'They still don't know I'm there.' He laughed, out loud this time. 'They're too obsessed with each other.'

'Oh, dear! Molly has moved from a psycho to a freak! She will never recover from this, poor dear.' He came into Seb's line of sight. He took the chair across from the couch where Seb still lay. Seb had only recently 'moved in'. He didn't really live anywhere, basically with whoever employed him at the time. Jim had been in the role of employer for a while, so Seb had just now gotten used to calling this home. The flat was nice. He liked it.

'No, Molly has become attached to the other one.'

Jim grinned. 'Good work, Sebby!' He stretched, widening the plane of his chest.

Seb stood from the couch. He stretched his arms and yawned. 'I've got to go. They'll be up by now.'

'Have fun, Sebby!' Jim called as Seb slipped on his shoes and left the flat. He turned and saluted in reply.

Sherlock had long since stopped pacing when they heard the little girl call him first.

'Sherlock!' High-pitched, frantic, afraid. Molly was about to get up when Sherlock pushed past her and burst into the room.

Molly could hear his voice from the hallway, where she stood by the door, 'I'm here, it's going to be okay.' She smiled and followed him inside. He was on his knees by the girl's bed, soothing her and wiping her tears away.

Molly's phone rang and she left to answer it. 'Hello?'

'Molly! Thank God! I've been trying to call Sherlock, but he won't answer his phone.'

'Greg, what's wrong?'

'Nothing! Exactly the opposite actually! We issued a 'found girl' report and found the girl's parents overnight. We are coming in the early afternoon to pick her up.'

'That's amazing! Good work!'

'Thank you.' Hesitation, 'H-how's Sherlock doing?'

'He's good. He has been with the girl almost all morning. You should see him, Greg, he really cares about her. It's adorable.'

Sherlock appeared out of the girl's room, carrying her close.

'Good. Keep an eye on him.'

'Will do, thank you for letting us know.'

Molly hung up the phone and turned to Sherlock. 'That was Lestrade.'

Sherlock stopped and looked at Molly, a sad look on his face. 'They found her parents, didn't they?' Molly nodded. Sherlock turned back to the room he had just come from. He began speaking to the little girl in his arms. Molly knew he was telling her she was going home, because after a minute, the little girl whipped her head up, a joyous grin plastered on her face. She hugged him and he stopped before the door, turning back. 'Thank you, Molly.'

Molly nodded, saddened by the sorrow in his eyes. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock.'

He shook his head and gave up on trying to go back into the bedroom when the girl in his arms wrestled her way out and ended up running across the room to hug Molly as well. She smiled up at Sherlock and he let a small smile out as a reply. He came over and sat down on the couch beside Molly and the little girl, who was beaming from ear to ear and swinging her legs.

'Sherlock, my Mommy is coming!' She squealed. Sherlock hid a half-smile from Molly, who tickled the girl and caused her to collapse into a hysterical fit of giggles.

The day progressed as normal as it could; Molly and Sherlock and their special guest ate lunch at around noon and afterwards played card games and waited for Lestrade to arrive. Unfortunately, the only thing Sherlock was able to get out of the little girl was her name, Clara. Other than that, they knew nothing.

Sherlock absolutely adored Clara, and absolutely did not want to give her up. Unfortunately, he had no choice. He thought to himself, _Someday, I hope to start a family._ He had never shared this wish before, mostly because he had never thought fully about what that meant, but also because saying he wanted a family was like admitting a weakness for him. It was human, and although his 'death' had changed him, he still did not want people to associated him with being human. He still loathed being categorized like them, he felt nothing of the same before his 'death', why should he admit defeat now?

At 3:48, Sherlock received a text saying that he and Ian were there with the girl's parents. Sherlock opened the door for them and Clara, upon seeing her family, rushed to greet them. Her mother hugged her tight and shed happy tears, while her father stood by, offering his joy, but didn't touch his daughter. Sherlock found that odd. _Stepfather. Married for just under two years, he doesn't want kids. Typical, Clara doesn't like him either._

Clara surprised Sherlock by hugging him again, but as Lestrade and Molly chatted with Clara's parents, she whispered something in his ear.

'Uncle Jim says 'hello'.'

**And now, I leave you all with this horrible cliffhanger. There will be more about the little girl in a later chapter, when Moriarty and Sherlock are reunited (again). I believe I am on the far side of this fanfiction and hope to wrap things up within say, 15-20 chapters? Thank you all for following, and I love the support you give. Never, in all of my writing endeavors did I ever imagine 83 wonderful reviews on one of my fanfictions. Not to sound cheesy, but I am touched. Heck, I never even imagined more than 10!**

**I want to know if I should bring John into the story and whether he should become a big part in the next few chapters, or if he should just meet Sherlock near the end. Let me know!**

**Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

**Beware, if you don't like Ian and Molly, please don't be angry…**

Chapter 19

Sherlock frowned. He watched in confusion and horror as Clara returned to her parents. By now, of course they were ready to get home, and they took Clara away. Sherlock stood exactly where she had told him the message, and watched the family leave. Lestrade approached the obviously shocked Sherlock.

'Everything alright?' He asked. Startled, Sherlock turned and nodded, unable to say anything else. He stalked back to his and Molly's bedroom and shut the door behind him.

Molly and Lestrade and Ian were left behind in the living room, confused.

'What happened?' Ian asked. Molly shrugged. Ian asked Lestrade, 'Am I staying here again?' Lestrade nodded, already on his phone with someone, and turned to the door, mouthing, _I've got to leave._ Molly and Ian waved him off and sat down on the couch.

'Is Sherlock okay?' Ian peered at the door of the bedroom. 'He seemed pretty caught off guard. Did Clara say anything to him?'

'I don't know.' Molly replied, 'All I saw was her hugging him, but then again, this is Sherlock. That might be enough to cause him to run away.' Ian laughed.

'Not a people person, then?'

Molly shook her head. 'He's a sociopath, or a 'high-functioning sociopath' as he would call himself. He's not really the person people want to be around. Not at all.'

'Why?'

'He deduces things.'

Disbelievingly, 'That's it?'

Molly nodded again, an amused smile playing on her lips. 'Yes, well, people, oddly enough, do not like a stranger coming up and pointing out their affair in public. It's quite stressful, knowing there's a man like that running loose in London.'

Ian snickered. 'He's incredibly smart. I don't know how he could do that-'

'Try.'

Ian looked up, startled. 'What?'

'Tell me what you can deduce about me.' Molly said, raising an eyebrow challengingly.

Ian sighed and took a good look at her before opening his mouth to speak, 'You're a pathologist. You work at Bart's. You're smart, funny, sweet, beautiful…' He had been leaning closer with every word, and now he was so close that he could feel Molly's breath on her lips. She felt them instinctively open, like the last time he had been this close to her, but this time, she leaned forward and closed the gap between them.

Molly savored the taste of his lips. He was much softer than she had imagined, but there was a fire behind the kiss. It only lasted a second or two, but when Ian pulled away, Molly could see he was reluctant in doing so. She met his eyes and smiled. She was about to lean back in when the bedroom door opened and Sherlock walked out. Molly and Ian broke apart. Molly hid her blushing face from Sherlock, but she knew that he could deduce what had happened.

'I'm going for a walk.' Sherlock announced. He headed for the door. Molly and Ian watched as he simply opened the door and left, closing the door behind him, without another word.

When he was sure Sherlock was gone, Ian turned back to Molly. 'Where were we?'

Sherlock stepped outside and took a deep breath of the fresh air. He needed this. His mind was full of such tedious things. He didn't need to sit inside and worry about these things, he needed to take a walk and clear his head. He hoped all of the trash floating around in his head would go away. He began walking, each step allowing the gears in his head to turn.

First order of business: Molly. He needed to go back to who he was. He had softened, yes, because of his death, but part of him hoped that Molly would like him more after his 'transformation' and would draw closer to him. And she had! The first few months of living with her had been filled with little sessions of obvious flirting and little nudges between the two of them, but now? Now there was Ian. He was perfect for Molly; kind handsome, _normal_. He was everything Sherlock wasn't. And Sherlock liked him, he approved. However, this meant that Molly wasn't going for Sherlock anymore, and therefore, he didn't need to be soft. He could go back to the way he was. That was good, because he knew that after he got rid of Moriarty, he would be known again and if he had changed, all Hell would break loose within not only the press, but within the government and his brother.

Second: Moriarty. The psychopath was playing things slow. He was waiting for Sherlock to get comfortable and then he would strike. Sherlock knew this, and he had to be careful to act comfortable, but not let his guard down. He knew exactly how he needed to deal with Moriarty. He needed to let him believe he was winning, and then attack from behind. Molly wasn't going to be any help. He wasn't going to let her anywhere near Moriarty. He had to do this alone.

Thirdly: _John_. Sherlock noticed the falter in his own steps and took a shuddering breath. John. John Watson. Dr. John Watson. His flat-mate. He admitted, this was a trivial matter, but he missed John. John was his friend, and right now, a friend was exactly what he needed. But how could he expect to go back to 221b and everything would be fine. How could he expect everything to be just as it was when he had left? John had probably already moved out and was married or something. He probably didn't even remember who Sherlock was anymore. _That's fine_, Sherlock told himself. He wasn't worthy of remembrance. That was sentiment.

Last order of business: Mycroft. He needed to tell Mycroft he as alive, he knew that, but he didn't know how he was going to get to Mycroft without the government finding out. He had thought of sending Molly back with a message, and telling Lestrade to tell Mycroft to keep Molly in London so she wouldn't get in the way, and so far, that seemed like the best option.

Sherlock was now about a half a mile away from the cabin and decided to turn back. His mind turned to Clara, the one thing he didn't want to think about. How did she know an Uncle Jim? There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that this was Moriarty, but he didn't want to believe that the monster had gotten a hold of a little girl again. Had he told her to say that? If so, how had she known to tell _him_? Moriarty was smart, and Sherlock was afraid to admit it, but he might be smarter than Sherlock himself. He couldn't win. He just couldn't. Moriarty was too much for him –

The air was knocked out of him when something, or rather some_one_ rammed into him from behind and tackled him to the ground. Sherlock tried desperately to flip over to get a look at his attacker, but to no avail. He saw a hand reach around to his mouth just before he felt the cloth in the hand press against his nose. He tried not to breathe, to struggle enough to throw off the man, but soon, he felt his brain become foggy and his sight began to fade.

He floated into unconsciousness.

**Hello again chickadees! I am absolutely blessed with the response to last chapter. 89 reviews is huge! The climax is starting to build up and excitement is flooding my whole muse. I have no idea what's in store, we'll just have to wait and see, but I am hoping to get the next chapter out soon.**

**I don't know why the sudden switch to constant updates, but I know you all like it, so I'll try to keep it up!**

**Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

**You are all going to hate me...so I apologize in advance... :(**

Chapter 20

Molly and Ian were busy in the kitchen, cooking some sort of chicken. They had flirted for the past three hours, kissing, laughing, not really noticing Sherlock's absence. However, when they finished cooking and sat down with three plates, but only two people, Molly noticed at least that Sherlock was not out with them in the living room. She headed to the bedroom, but Ian stopped her.

'Molly, he left.'

'That's right.' Molly turned, remembering. 'He's been gone quite a while. Do you think he's alright?'

'I don't know. Maybe I should go check on him. I could drive around and see if I can spot him in the forest.' He set his two plates down on the table and reached to his keys on the counter.

'Sounds good.' Molly opened the front door. 'I'm coming with you.'

'No, Molly; If he's in trouble, I'm not going to let you get hurt as well.'

She smiled. 'Well, that's sweet, but Sherlock is my friend. I'm not going to let him down.' She placed her hand on Ian's arm and left it there, staring into his eyes coolly, until he consented.

'Sherlock, dear!' _Irish voice, high-pitched, crazy._ 'I need you to wake up darling_._'

_Blurry and bright lights coming from one side. And dark from the other? Cabin. Another cabin, this one is smaller than the one I found the girl in._ Sherlock forced his eyes open. He saw exactly what he expected to see: four cabin walls, a window to his right, a door to his left, two stories, stairs leading up directly in front of him. He knew there was a man, no, a monster behind him. He didn't want to see the monster.

'Sherlock? Are you awake?' Sherlock chose not to answer, until something hard hit him in the back of the head: _a book_. 'Sherlock, answer me.'

'I am now.' The familiar bored and monotonous baritone pitch was back in his voice. The biofeedback had worked. He was now back to the cold and separated Sherlock he had been before his 'death.' He felt a bump beginning to form on the back of his head and wanted to touch it, but his hands were tied behind his back. He was sitting in another uncomfortable chair, with his hands tied behind his back. And to make things worse, Moriarty was standing right behind him. 'What do you want from me?'

'I've recently had a change of heart. Instead of me just killing you off for no reason, I want you to prove yourself. Based on that, I will decide whether to kill you or keep you alive.'

Sherlock was confused. 'I've already proven myself too many times for you.'

'Yes, but dear, if you'd remember, you had help with most of those times. John, Molly, your _brother_.' He spat out the last one with horrible contempt. 'I want to see what _you_ can do.' He slapped his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and leaned in close. 'If you succeed, I want you on my team. If you fail, I will kill you, for real this time. Do you understand?'

Sherlock contemplated the idea. 'So no involvement from anyone else.'

'None.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'Turn right here!' Molly said. She was beginning to get frantic. She and Ian had been driving around for fifteen minutes and hadn't found Sherlock. She knew fifteen minutes wasn't that long, but surely he hadn't gone far; he would have known that could have been dangerous.

Ian did as she said and took a sharp right turn. A rough gravelly road led farther into the forest, but turned a little way down, so they couldn't see very far. Ian sped up, throwing gravel to the sides of the car. He braked suddenly and followed the swerve in the road to the left. The road stopped abruptly and Ian had to swing the car to avoid hitting the cabin right in front of them. He turned off the car and jumped out, pulling his gun out before approaching the front door cautiously. Molly followed.

Ian gestured for her to get behind him. He knocked.

'I'll ask you once more, Sherlock. Are you in? Or are you out?' Moriarty squeezed Sherlock's shoulders. Pain shot all the way from the nerves there to his feet and his head. He grimaced.

_Knock knock knock._

'Sherlock? Are you in there?' Ian's familiar voice called from the other side of the door. Sherlock jumped and whipped his head to face the door. Moriarty kept his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, but stood up straight and turned his own attention to the door. Sherlock kept still, hoping Moriarty wouldn't make him answer. That way, Ian could dismiss the thought of him being there and move on to a safer area.

'Sherlock?' Ian asked again. Moriarty bent down again, 'Answer him!' _Just his luck. _And stood again.

Sherlock hesitated before, 'Yes. I'm here.'

A second passed before the door squeaked open. A ray of light shone into the room and was obscured again when Ian stepped into the door. He entered with his gun pointed toward Moriarty right away. _Smart man,_ Sherlock thought. _He knew exactly what was going on_, but Sherlock was surprised when Molly followed Ian close behind.

'Oh, well this is a marvelous surprise!' Moriarty chortled. 'Molly you get to see Sherlock give in to my genius! Oh this _is_ wonderful!'

When Molly saw Sherlock and how he was being held in the chair, she stepped forward, in front of Ian, and cried, 'Sherlock!' She began to take another step, but Ian placed a hand on her shoulder, advising her silently to stay where she was.

Moriarty stepped around Sherlock's chair. 'What do you say, Sherlock? You know I'm not going to play fair. You answer now, I let you know what you do later. Come on, take a risk.' There was that disgusting smile.

Sherlock smiled to himself and looked at Moriarty with the same cold glare he had given the psychopath on the roof of Bart's. 'You're forgetting, I succeed, I work with you, I fail, you kill me, but you didn't tell me what happens if I refuse the choice now. What happens if I say no?' He challenged.

Moriarty laughed and turned to Ian. 'Sebby?' Ian nodded and Molly furrowed her brow, looking back at him.

'Sorry, Molly.' Ian said, _in a British accent_, before he pulled her to his chest and wrapped his arm around her neck. He held the gun up to her head and waited.

Sherlock was as shocked as Molly was.

**Okay, I expect some hate mail within the next few days. I don't know when the next chapter will be posted, so this may be a painful cliffhanger for some of you. PLEASE REVIEW THIS CHAPTER! I would love to know what I did right and what I did wrong!**

**Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	21. Chapter 21

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

**My word! The response to the last chapter was so much better than I had anticipated! Thank you all so much for the amazing and encouraging 100 reviews! That really means a lot to me! I hope you enjoy this new chapter, which begins the steepest ascent to the climax!**

Chapter 21

'Sebby?' Molly breathed heavily, half-choked by Ian.

'It's short for Sebastian. Sherlock, Molly, I would love for you to meet Sebastian Moran, the highest ranking and most attractive assassin slash genius in my network.' Moriarty grinned widely as his partner held the struggling Molly close, the gun still against her head. Moriarty continued, 'And Sherlock, I'm sure now, you won't refuse my offer, seeing what will happen if you refuse.'

Sherlock, now trying desperately to get the damn rope off of his wrists in order to escape, stalled the psychopath. 'So…why do you need me at all?' He struggled. The knot was tight and very well tied.

'I don't _need_ you!' Moriarty spat back, offended. 'I merely recognize that people like you are smart and I must league with the smartest people in order to become appealing to all agencies, terrorist cells, businesses, and governments, or as many as possible.' By now, he had come fully in front of Sherlock and Ian, no Sebastian, had pulled Molly slightly over to join him.

Sherlock now had the benefit of Moriarty not seeing his hands. He struggled against the rope. 'Why me? There are other – _smarter_ – people in the world.' He said it with disbelief. 'Why choose me instead of them?'

Moriarty laughed harshly. He turned to Molly and reached out a hand to softly stroke her cheek She pulled away and he sniffed. 'Well, for one, you have very pretty friends.' He turned back. 'And you are somehow different. Your brother has connections in one of the most powerful governments in the world; you are not only smart, you are genius; you and I have quite a lengthy history.'

Sherlock got the end of the rope out of the loop it was in and concentrated on the other end. It was almost there – and – got it! Still, he had to figure out how to do this. 'And if I say yes and succeed, then I work with you? As what; what will my job be?'

'You would be my right-hand man, well, right under Sebby here. Your job would most likely be to trick the police when my sneaky people commit a crime. Although now, we are already untraceable, it's always nice to have a back-up plan. And with you, the police and the governments will never be able to track the crime back to us.' He looked smug.

'Am I allowed to think on it?'

Moriarty laughed. 'I don't see why you would need to, Sherlock dear! You see before you what happens if you refuse. We all know you care for Molly. Why not just say yes now and save us all the trouble?'

'What happens to her if I say yes?'

'So many questions.' He was annoyed now. He began walking back to the side of the cabin behind Sherlock, who scrambled to make it look like his hands were still tied. 'Nothing immediately, but if she is in any way involved, she will die.'

Sherlock saw the slight falter in Molly's faked brave facial expression. He had no other choice, and needed to get Moriarty out of the cabin and out of his head. With hesitancy only in his head, he said quietly, almost in a whisper, 'I'll do it.'

Moriarty looked a little surprised. 'Wow, you really do care for her.'

'I just prefer that no one gets hurt.' Sherlock deadpanned. He did really want everyone to stay safe, but he didn't want Moriarty to know Molly was special to him. He didn't even want himself to think that, but a lot of things had changed over the past few months.

'Alright. Well, Sebby, I guess that means our job is over!' The satisfied hint in Moriarty's voice made Sherlock want to get up then and punch him, but he stayed in the chair. Someday, that maniac would pay for what he had done and was doing.

Without another word, Moriarty went to untie Sherlock, but when he noticed the rope was already untied, he smiled, 'See, you are a clever boy.' He left and Sebastian followed close behind, shoving Molly toward Sherlock's chair.

When the door shut, Sherlock stood, tossing the rope over to the side of the room and grabbing Molly's shoulders. He leaned down to look into her eyes. 'Are you alright?' She nodded, but Sherlock wasn't convinced. 'Are you sure? One hundred percent sure?' He examined her for bruises or cuts.

Molly pushed away. 'I am fine!' She barked. Sherlock stepped back, confused. He didn't do anything wrong, did he? 'What was that for? I just saved your life!' He asked, a little more rudely than originally intended.

Molly heard the tone and turned around, in awe of his ignorance. 'Sherlock, not everything is about you. I am upset because someone that I found I loved turned out, once again, to be a bad guy!' She took a deep breath, trying not to cry, and turned to the door. 'You might want to call Lestrade because unless you've got another trick up your sleeve, I have no idea how we are getting back to the cabin.'

One phone call and two hours later, Lestrade pulled up to the front of the cabin, where Molly and Sherlock sat, patiently and slightly awkwardly waiting. The wait had been in silence, except for Sherlock's apology to Molly. She had ignored it of course. After that, Sherlock had _deduced_ her frustration, now with him as well as with Ian - Sebastian, and had left her alone. Once Lestrade was there, Sherlock was grateful for a way to get away from the cabin and a reason to break the silence in order to explain their situation. However, once they got into the car and started back, it was silent again.

Lestrade broke the silence after a few minutes, 'I think it's time to bring you two home.'

Molly's face brightened up a little at that. 'Really?' She sat up straight, and smiled a half-smile. Sherlock tried to catch her eye, but she refused to look in his direction.

Lestrade continued, 'Yeah, I see no reason to keep you two in a cabin in the middle of the woods for the purpose of staying off the radar of a psychopath when it's not doing what it was supposed to. I think you'd best go home and we can keep a close eye on you two there.'

'I'll have to find another place to stay. It's not safe for Molly if I keep her with me.' Sherlock broke in. That got Molly's attention and she looked over, but didn't meet his gaze.

'Do you think your brother will be able to find you a place? Or do I need to look as well?' Lestrade inquired

'I am perfectly able to find a place to stay. I don't need your help.' He snapped. Boy, he was getting better at being the old Sherlock, but then again, 'I mean I'm not allowed help. I suspect that means in anything.' He looked back out the window.

'Okay. We will go back to the cabin and you can get anything you left there and then we will head back to London.' Lestrade offered.

'Oh, it will be excellent to smell the familiar smell of London again.' Molly said dreamily.

'You mean it will be nice to play with your stupid feline again.' Sherlock teased. It was more of a bullying tease, and Molly looked hurt when he glanced over. Actually, she looked pissed off. He would apologize later.

They arrived at the cabin, and Sherlock asked Molly to retrieve his spare clothes for him, as that was the only thing he had brought. Molly reluctantly agreed, calling him lazy on her way in. He ignored her.

With Molly gone, Sherlock turned to Lestrade. 'Are you alright?'

Lestrade laughed. 'What, about Sgt. Roman? Yeah, I guess so. I'm disappointed, he was an amazing Sgt, but I guess that's what I get.' He sighed and crossed his arms, leaning up against the car.

Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pants' pockets. 'I am sorry.'

Lestrade exploded. 'You know what? You should be sorry, but not to me. What on earth is wrong with you? Just last week, you were practically throwing yourself at Molly's feet because you adored her, and now you're pushing her away and acting just like you did before your death.' He scoffed. 'It's almost as if you've already surrendered yourself to Moriarty and you're sacrificing others' trust in you because of it. It's sad, Sherlock.'

Molly exited the cabin, lugging a bag with her, and she pushed past Sherlock and threw it in the backseat before hopping in after it. Sherlock followed, closing the door behind him and staying as far away from Molly as he could. She did the same, and the bag, which she had pushed in between them acted as the perfect wall. Lestrade shifted into drive and headed home.

The ride was silent again, but the thoughts of the people inside were not. Lestrade promised this time he would never forgive the bastard in the backseat of his car. In the back of his mind, he contemplated the current case, but his main worry was honestly getting Sherlock out of his hair once and for all.

Molly thought of her friends, of her family, of her flat, in which she would finally get to eat dinner again. She hoped dearly that Sherlock could find himself another place to stay tonight, because she didn't think he would be alive the next morning if he didn't. Her main worry was honestly getting Sherlock out of her hair once and for all.

Sherlock thought of Molly, and only of Molly. He thought of how he wanted to turn around and apologize and again throw himself into her arms and kiss her senseless, but he knew that if he did that, no matter what happened with Moriarty, it wouldn't turn out well. If he succeeded, he would be sucked into a world of darkness and death even worse than the one he trapped himself in now. He would be a slave to his nemesis, and it would eventually drive him crazy. If he failed, he would be killed, and he didn't want to make Molly love him just in time to break her heart by failing and being killed. His main worry was honestly getting himself out of her hair one and for all. He decided that he would find himself a place to stay that night, and if he failed, the homeless network could find him an abandoned house or a doorstep.

**Okay, I know I said I probably wouldn't get this up for a while, but I was so psyched about checking my email and seeing the 12 REVIEWS for the last chapter, and most of them saying 'please update', I felt I couldn't keep you all waiting for long. Once again THANK YOU ALL! This is a very momentous occasion for me: 105 reviews, 50 followers, and almost 10,000 views. WOW.**

**Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	22. Chapter 22

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

**I have a surprise for you all… **

Chapter 22

At around 3:45, Lestrade dropped Molly and Sherlock at Molly's flat, much to Sherlock's despair. He had tried to persuade Lestrade to take him somewhere else, like the old storage building around the corner, the empty warehouse five minutes down the road, and even in his last resort, his brother's office, but had been refused each time, saying he could contact an /acquaintance before showing up, the word acquaintance emphasized strongly.

Sherlock followed a ways behind Molly into the flat, making a point of closing the door quietly and politely. He knew he shouldn't care because he was the old Sherlock again, but he still couldn't help feeling like the whole incident with Ian-Sebastian was his fault.

He silently made his way to the living area, typing a text on the way, almost bumping into Molly on her way to her bedroom. He mumbled an apology under his breath and waited for her to pass before continuing on to the living room. He sank into a chair, placed his phone on the table, and closed his eyes.

It was good to be _home_. This was home to him. Ever since he'd left 221b, this had been home. This was where he wanted to be. This was where he _needed_ to be, but alas, he couldn't let Molly suffer. He knew he had to leave, that's why he had already texted Francisco, an older homeless man Sherlock knew well from a kidnapping case way back. Francisco had spotted the suspect and had let Sherlock know, and they solved the case because of his urgency. Currently, Francisco resided in an apartment building two minutes walking distance from Molly's flat. Sherlock had texted him to let him know he was coming.

He planned on leaving within two hours, just before it got dark, but so it was hazy enough to provide him with cover. His clothes and belongings were still in the bag Molly had brought back.

Molly's door squeaking caused Sherlock to open his eyes and turn his head just enough to see her exit her bedroom with a black case in hand. His facade shifted back to Indifferent Sherlock and he ignored the curiosity rising in his throat. He was sure it would be explained soon enough.

And he was right. A minute later, Molly came to sit beside him. She placed the case to the side of the couch so he could not see it, and turned to face him, or as much as she could.

'Sherlock, I want you to know I'm sorry for my behavior this morning. I was rude and selfish.' She sighed, the sadness becoming apparent in her voice. Sherlock pretended to be annoyed when she continued, 'I was just upset about being tricked again. First Jim, now Ian.' She paused, thinking. 'I want you to know that I am grateful. You are being very brave and trying to protect me. If you wish to leave, I won't stop you, I promise. Just make sure you make it out in one piece.' She reached down and pulled the case on her lap. Despite his brain trying hard to make him look, Sherlock continued looking forward. 'I got this from John. It's for you.' She pushed the case from her own lap over to his. He finally allowed himself to look down at the object and gasped when he saw the black case marked Stradivarius.

He immediately opened the case to reveal the familiar instrument. The strings were a bit dusty and surely out of tune, but he fixes that right away, pulling the violin out and plucking each string until it was perfectly in tune.

He stroked his fingers up the strings and up over the scroll. He pulled out the bow next and stood to scrub the hairs with rosin before placing the fine threads against one of the strings of the violin and extending his arm, producing a beautiful A.

Molly closed her eyes and listened to the note, which did not last very long before Sherlock stopped and turned around to put it back in its case. Molly placed her hand on his arm to stop him.

When Sherlock looked up, he was once again in the situation where he was close enough to Molly that he wanted to kiss her, but couldn't. He started to breathe heavier and he was sure his pupils were as big as saucers by now. He felt his lips slightly part and tried hard to keep his eyes off of Molly's own mouth.

She kept calm, even though she felt exactly the same. She licked her lips and whispered, 'Play for me before you leave.'

Sherlock slowly nodded and stood up again, glad to pull away from the trance he seemed to be in. He picked up the violin and the bow and faced the window so he wouldn't think of Molly and become distracted. He took a deep breath before placing the bow against the strings of the violin and beginning to play.

Molly listened carefully and silently, closing her eyes and leaning back against the back of the couch. She had heard the song before, maybe Sherlock had played it sometime before, she didn't know, but she loved it. She allowed her body to disappear as Sherlock continued to play, sweetly, sadly, softly. She could feel something different in his playing, something she'd never heard anyone else play with. It sounded like…pain. Sherlock not only played with grace and beauty, but he played with all of the pain in his heart: the pain from leaving John behind, the pain of his death and leaving his friends (or the few he had). She felt the sadness in his head, the sadness he never let anyone else see. This was the side of him she loved; the vulnerable side that only came out when he played.

When the music stopped, Molly had fallen slightly asleep and didn't' notice for a few moments. By the time she realized, Sherlock had already put away his violin and was heading for the door, the case in one hand, and a small bag in the other. Molly hopped up from the couch and followed him, blocking him from leaving.

Sherlock set his bag and case down to put on his coat, but once his coat was wrapped securely around his shoulders, he didn't get the chance to pick up his things because Molly threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.

He obliged her, pulling her close and circling her waist with his own arms. He could hear her trying to steady her breathing, as if she was trying not to cry. She sniffed and confirmed his thoughts.

Sherlock didn't want to leave. Being at Molly's flat had allowed him to break out of a cold and hard shell and be himself, but now that Moriarty was back and he had to show himself to the world again, his demeanor had changed back. He didn't like it. If – when he came back to visit Molly, he knew he could trust her to hold him when he needed her to. He could trust her to not ask questions. He could trust her.

Molly pulled away from the hug, keeping her arms around his neck. Sherlock looked into her brown eyes, filled with regret and sadness, the same sadness he felt. He felt his breathing pick up again, his lips parted, his pupils dilated.

He kissed her. It wasn't hungry, it wasn't passionate, it was a 'thank you'.

When Molly got over her surprise that Sherlock was kissing her, she responded, letting her eyes close and her arms relax, and she allowed her lips to mold with his. She didn't pay any real attention to the kiss, only the feelings behind it, until the kiss became salty and bitter, and Molly realized Sherlock was crying. She pulled away from the kiss, reaching up to wipe his tears away. She felt her heart melt when she saw his face: tired, red eyes, set in a weary and downcast face.

This was the part of Sherlock that no one, not even John Watson, had ever seen.

Sherlock leaned down and picked up his things, breaking the spell over the two of them, and opening the door. Molly followed him to the front, holding the door for him.

'When will you be back?' She murmured. He turned, frowning.

'I don't know if I will be back, Molly.'

She nodded. 'Stay safe,' was all she could muster as she watch him leave the safety of her flat and enter the world he had worked so hard to stay away from.

Sherlock walked down the sidewalk, staying close to the buildings and at least partly in the shadows. The sun had begun to set, so some of the shadows were dark enough to obscure his face and hide his identity. He continued to walk, down the side of the nearly empty street, toward his new home.

It didn't take long to arrive at the apartment complex. Sherlock opened the front door, which was barely grabbing on to the frame by the hinges, which desperately needed to be oiled. He winced as the door squeaked open and shut, a bit grateful that he was already announced and didn't have to worry about Francisco jumping when he opened the door.

He ascended the stairs to the third floor. When he reached the third floor, he walked slowly down the hallway to Francisco's apartment. He studied the walls and the way the paint peeled and blended with the stains along the way. There were marks both at a child's level, and at his level. He dragged his fingertips along the dirty wall, afterwards rubbing his darkened fingers together.

As he approached the door to the familiar apartment, Sherlock paused. He could hear Francisco's voice, but there was another voice as well, one that was too faint and distant for Sherlock to identify. He stopped at the door and listened as the two voices went on talking, Francisco's sounding persistent and a bit worried, and the other sounding persuasive and menacing. He heard the doorknob turn and the second voice spoke a farewell, still untraceable, and Sherlock panicked when the door opened. He backed into another room, both opening and closing the door as quietly as he could. The footsteps of the second person passed by, unaware of the man in the room he passed. Sherlock waited a bit before exiting the empty room and making sure the man was down the hallway. He turned quickly and entered Francisco's apartment. He closed the door and turned around.

Francisco was seated on the couch in the small and messy living room, the TV turned down low. He looked surprised to see Sherlock.

'What are you doing here?' He asked, his voice sounding slightly shaken, most likely from the previous conversation.

'I texted you earlier. I need a place to stay while I work for Moriarty.'

Francisco looked even more confused. 'Moriarty? I thought you told me he was the evil guy…And I thought you said he was dead! You lyin'?'

Sherlock nodded. 'But, he didn't die as I thought he did and I've been compromised. I have to work for him or he will kill me and my friends.'

Francisco was silent and avoided eye contact with Sherlock, who could sense something was wrong. A cabinet slamming could be heard from the direction of the bathroom, and Sherlock jumped, spinning around and facing the bathroom, poised for an attack. Instead, a man appeared around the corner. His head was bleeding, his lip was cut, and he was carrying bandages. He stopped when he saw Sherlock as well.

'Sherlock?' John breathed.

**Hello chickadees! I have done a wonderful thing and brought John into the story. You can thank me in your reviews. Thank you all for the wonderful reviews, by the way. They made me so excited to write another chapter. Apologies for the wait, but this chapter was killer to write. It is absolute Hell making Sherlock 1: say goodbye to Molly, and 2: say hello to John.**

**More from a number of people next chapter: John, Francisco, and Mycroft! Keep reading!**

**Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	23. Chapter 23

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

Chapter 23

Sherlock expected the situation to go one of three ways. First option, John would be overjoyed to see his friend and might even plead for a hug, and compared to the other two options, that seemed fair. Option two, John would be angry and never talk to Sherlock again. He would leave then and there and move far away so he wouldn't have to see the man that hurt him ever again. Third option, John would be so mad that he punched Sherlock, just like Lestrade did.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, John consciously chose the third option, but it didn't come immediately, not when Sherlock had expected anyway. John stared, eyes piercing, breathing hard, nostrils flaring, obviously furious, mad, angry, livid, fuming, enraged, irate, pissed, etc. He clenched his jaw and his fists, brain working to find the appropriate words to tell Sherlock just what he was feeling. Something his father had told him once, 'When words fail, action succeeds' came into mind, and John prepared to deliver the strongest blow he'd ever dealt.

He looked into Sherlock's eyes; he saw the pain and regret, the _feeling_ and couldn't. He saw how Sherlock knew it was coming and braced himself for the fury he was sure would follow. But it didn't come.

Instead, John's hands stayed clenched, but his face softened, his eyes filled with tears, his lip began trembling, he stood, weak, filled to the brim with unexplainable emotion, and didn't know what to do. He couldn't do anything, so he fell to the ground, hands pressed against his eyes, allowing tears to tumble down his cheeks and onto his jeans. He wheezed, he sobbed, he waited. For what, he didn't know.

Sherlock bent down, still uncertain, and a bit confused, and placed his hand on John's shoulder. He tried to start quietly, tried to calm John. Gentle hushes were scattered her and there until John stilled, his shudders becoming less frequent and more controlled. The tears, however, Sherlock could see them still falling steadily from the tip of John's nose.

When the crying had finished, and John was silent once more, he raised his head. Sherlock was injured to see an unfamiliar, cold, and hard look in John's eyes. All of the joy from the years previous and the excitement were replaced with an exhaustion that Sherlock had never seen before. This was not physical exhaustion this was emotional and mental exhaustion. It was strange to see John like this.

John pushed Sherlock's hand away with a dismissive gesture and turned to Francisco, who had stood like a statue through the short exchange. He quietly thanked him for the help, Sherlock made a mental note to ask about what help Francisco gave later, and headed to the door, making a remark about 'Freak' needing to talk to Francisco.

Sherlock watched as his friend left, not even slamming the door, without the slightest giveaway of any anger he might be feeling. Sherlock himself took a step toward the door, but there was a hand on his arm, holding him back.

Sherlock turned around to see Francisco, looking sad. 'I have absolutely no idea what just happened or why it happened, but something tells me you should not go after him.'

Sherlock complied, telling himself to check up on John after he was finished talking to Francisco.

Two hours later, Francisco was informed of the situation, but not educated enough on the subject to be in any danger, and Sherlock officially the resident of the apartment two doors down across the hall. Sherlock had already checked out the flat, cringing at the smell, but it was decent and he left his bag and (hesitantly) his violin. Now, he walked out of the building, hailing a taxi and heading to 221b, where he was fairly sure John would be.

And he was right, when Sherlock paid the cabbie, opened the _unlocked_ door, and climbed up the stairs, thanking no one that Ms. Hudson wasn't there, John was sitting in his chair, staring at the wall. Sherlock paused at the door, expecting everything to have been moved, but everything was exactly how it had been. After inspecting the flat, he moved around to sit in his chair, almost coughing as a huge cloud of dust rose up from the untouched fabric. He looked at John, who was avoiding eye contact.

'John, I'm sorry.' He offered after a moment.

John laughed, the normal hilarious laugh becoming almost insane. 'You know, your brother was the last person to say that to me.' He finally looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock saw the extent of the injuries he had noticed at Francisco's place.

Not only was there a dark circle under John's right eye, the other eye was encircled by a bruise, already tinted yellow. The right side of his face was covered in cuts, and the temple was covered in an open wound, dried of course, but obviously recently acquired. The wound was decorated with other bruises and these bruises created a trail down his cheek and neck and under his shirt collar. Sherlock couldn't take the sight of John being hurt and looked away, but the familiar cane by John's left armrest caught his attention.

'You're using the cane again.' He noted, still not taking his eyes off of it.

John placed his hand on the stick, rubbing his hand over the handle. 'Well, it started hurting again.'

'How are you?' Sherlock bumbled, not really sure how to talk to his old friend anymore. 'I mean, other than the leg?'

John scoffed, 'You don't actually care, do you?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'No, but I do want to know how those wounds happened.' He was beginning to feel the indifference coming back. It hurt to interact with John in such a cold way, but he wanted John to act the same, and therefore he must act the same.

'It's nothing.'

Sherlock looked back at John. 'Obviously it is. Your head is cracked open and there is blood everywhere!'

John narrowed his eyes. 'Deduce it.'

This came as a surprise to Sherlock, who tilted his head and narrowed his own eyes, but not in a challenge like John, but in confusion. 'Are you sure?' He immediately reprimanded himself. He didn't care if John said yes or no. 'The wounds are consistent with those of a blow to the right side of your head and you being knocked unconscious and landing on the ground on your left side. I'd say you got drunk, I mean come on, this place reeks of alcohol, plainly showing you've become addicted –' to this, John's eyes narrowed even more, and he placed his right pointer finger on his right temple and leaned on his hand while Sherlock continued, 'and you most likely got in a fight with a bloke and were beaten up outside of the pub.'

John continued looking directly at Sherlock, judging him. Sherlock stared right back, sucking all emotion from his eyes and back into the deepest pit of his heart. He saw John do the same, the impressed flicker disappear quickly and dissolve into tiny particles.

'Idiot.'

One simple word, enough to send Sherlock spinning. 'What?' He defended, becoming easily self-conscious (in an egotistical way).

'You think you can come back and act the same? I know you've changed, and guess what – so have I.' John spat. 'I'm not going to welcome you back. Do you know how long I waited? I waited an entire year. Most people might think that's too short of a time to wait, but with the absence of a brain like yours to help me along, it seemed like a hell of a lot longer. You think you can come back to life and drag me back with you, but I didn't die, Sherlock. I moved on. And you need to do the same.

'I had dozens of people talking to me. For the first two months the apologized and brought dinner to me, for the next three or four months, it was little smiles and touches whenever they saw me, as if that would do any good. After that, I was told to forget about you and move on, that I could become the best doctor in London now that 'that roadblock' was out of the way. I believed it too.' He leaned forward. 'Yet, for the next six months, I still visited your grave, every Saturday, four o'clock on the dot. I thought maybe some divine inspiration from you would rise up out of the ground and you would somehow come back.'

Sherlock cut in, 'But I did come back –'

'Four months too late!' John stood, his face rigid with pain. 'You were four months too late.' With that, he began to head to the stairs and to his room, but Sherlock stood as well.

'John I did it to save you!'

John stopped. He turned around and rushed back to stand a few inches away from Sherlock, craning his neck to look Sherlock in the face. 'Then why am I getting riddles, Sherlock? Why does Moriarty contact me every month with another threat? I don't feel safe!'

Sherlock stopped. 'What?'

'Riddles, Sherlock. Me. I've been getting letters stuffed under the door every so often, from JM, at first I thought it could be some evil prank, but they started getting more and more serious.'

'But you're alive. There's no reason to complain.' And that's what Sherlock had been waiting for. John punched him and watched as Sherlock fell, stumbling, into his chair. John came at him again, landing blow after blow on Sherlock's face, his arms, his chest. Sherlock raised his arms, trying to ward off some of the attack. He gave up and opted for grabbing John's shoulders instead, causing the punching to ease off eventually.

'You bastard! I thought you were dead, and here you are, simply thinking 'I'm sorry' will do? You're have no idea what it's like to lose your best friend, to lose the one person you can truly confide in!' He was breathing heavily and said nothing else, but walked out, heading up to his room. Sherlock sat, also panting, in his chair. His face was now covered in bruises, and he was sure there was a slit in his lip. He scooted back in his chair, just as it started to rain.

**So, this chapter was a bit harder than I had anticipated. I rewrote this chapter 4 times, and I still don't think I did it quite right. Pleeeeeeeease let me know how I did!**

**Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	24. Chapter 24

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

**This is a minor re-post, apologies.**

Chapter 24

John's phone rang once. He pressed the answer button.

'Hello?'

'John.' Sherlock's voice, panicked and anxious from the other end.

'Hey Sherlock, you okay?'

'Turn around and walk back the way you came.' Insistent.

Still, John protested, 'No, I'm coming in-'

'_Just do as I ask!_' Sherlock sounded as if he was about to cry. 'Please.'

John started to worry. He didn't know where Sherlock was, but he was being required to stay outside? What was going on? 'Where?' He asked. He started to walk back to the spot where the cab had dropped him off.

'Stop there.'

'Sherlock,' John started, but he couldn't finish. He was panting, riddled with worry, anxiety, and confusion.

A pause, before, 'Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop.'

Disbelieving, John raised his gaze to the rooftop of the hospital building before him. Sherlock stood, tall and solitary, on the edge. 'Oh, God.' He breathed.

'I-' Sherlock stuttered, 'I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this.'

The confusion clouding John's mind expanded. 'What's going on?'

'_An apology_; it's all true.'

John head began spinning. It couldn't all be true! Moriarty had lied about Sherlock, and Kitty Riley had lied about Richard Brook! He wasn't real! This couldn't be happening. It wasn't true. None of it was true, John was sure of that. He stammered, 'What?'

'Everything they said about me. I…invented Moriarty.' John saw Sherlock move his head as if he was looking behind him.

John shook his head, 'Why are you saying this?'

'I'm a fake.' Sherlock's voice became tight and tear-choked; he _was_ about to cry. 'The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.'

John kept his gaze locked on Sherlock, 'Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met. The first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?' He was getting even more panicked now; he couldn't make Sherlock stop.

Sherlock's voice wavered slightly, 'Nobody could be that clever.'

'You could.'

There was no hesitation in John's voice. Sherlock laughed, as if what John had just said was foolish and impractical. 'I researched you.'

John wanted to scream. He wanted to shout at the world, at Moriarty, at Sherlock. He wanted to tell Sherlock to stop, to tell him he was lying; that he knew Sherlock for real.

'Before we me, I discovered everything that I could to impress you.' John was becoming angry. 'It's a trick. It's just a magic trick.'

'No, all right, stop it now.' John protested. He didn't want to hear anymore. He started to walk toward the building, half determined to save Sherlock, and half determined he could calm himself down and convince himself that everything was fine.

'No! Stay exactly where you are!' Sherlock began to breathe heavier, and it was evident now that he was openly crying. He had stretched out his hand as if to stop John from walking any further. 'Don't move!'

John raised his own hand in surrender, 'All right.'

'Keep your eyes fixed on me,' Sherlock panted. 'Please, will you do this for me?'

'Do what?' John asked. What on earth could he possibly mean?

'This phone call, it's um,' Sherlock straightened up. 'It's my note.' Another pause, 'It's what people do don't they? Leave a note?'

No, he couldn't mean- 'Leave a note?' He pulled the phone away from his ear, wanting just to shout, 'Leave a note when?'

'Goodbye, John.'

'No, don't.' John objected.

Sherlock threw the phone onto the roof beside him, automatically ending the call. When John heard the call end, he immediately pulled the phone away from his ear and yelled, 'Sherlock!' then watched in horror as Sherlock extended his arms and fell forward – off of the building.

He watched Sherlock tumble and flail down, falling, falling, until –

John awoke, drenched in sweat. His heart raced, his mind spun, he rubbed the heel of his hand into his eye and sat up. He had relived that moment a million times, and it still shocked him, to see Sherlock falling, losing control.

Sherlock!

He jumped out of bed, still wearing his clothes from the day before, and raced down the stairs, throwing open the door and expecting to see Sherlock sitting in his chair, dressed in his blue dressing gown, hand steepled under his chin, like before the incident. Instead, he found the flat empty, like after the incident.

He needed to clear this all up; he needed to tell someone Sherlock was alive. He needed to find a way to help him. He needed to protect Sherlock from whoever was chasing him.

He needed to talk to Mycroft.

Two hours later, John was showered, and looking fresh, but not feeling it, and waiting for Mycroft to call him into his office. The door opened and Anthea stepped out, texting, and motioned silently for John to come in. She closed the door behind him and John waited until he was sure she was gone before turning to Mycroft.

He didn't expect to see Molly sitting in one of the chairs in front of Mycroft's desk. He looked surprised, and Mycroft invited him to sit down beside Molly.

'I suppose you're here to talk about Sherlock?' Mycroft asked.

John nodded, 'How did you know?'

Mycroft laughed, 'So is Molly.'

John looked over at Molly with a questioning look. She replied quietly, 'I'm worried about him.'

John realized her calm and her lack of surprise at knowing about Sherlock. 'You knew?' He stood again, hovering over her. 'You knew he was alive? And you didn't tell me?' He was angry now, his voice became louder and louder as he got closer to her.

'Sit down, Doctor Watson.'

Mycroft's voice caused him to pull his attention away from Molly, who had leaned away from him, suddenly afraid. He obeyed, not able to do anything else. He fixed his eyes on the expensive looking carpet that disappeared under the desk. Mycroft continued, 'Molly tells me that Sherlock is alive, and very much so, but is in grave danger. He has been contacted again by Moriarty. Molly, however, does not know why. Nor does she know what will happen to you.' He picked up a glass of drink and raised it to his lips. 'Do you know anything, John? Please, if you have information, do share it with us.'

John grinned, 'I'm supposed to share information with you two?' He looked up. When he saw Mycroft's confused expression, he added forcefully, 'Molly, who knew Sherlock was alive, and no doubt helped him escape death, and didn't tell me, and you, who originally shared Sherlock's life story in the first place. You got him killed, Mycroft! –or rather, almost killed.'

'I have learned my lesson, John. And Molly did this out of Sherlock's best interest, and I am assured yours as well.'

'And I'm supposed to believe that?' John spouted frustration.

'Will you do nothing?' Mycroft hissed. 'Your best friend is in danger! The very same man who tried to kill him in order to disgrace his name has vowed to stop at _nothing_ to ruin him for certain! He stands on the edge of that hospital once again; I ask you: will you stand and watch him fall, or will you prevent his fall before it happens?'

'You're blaming me for your brother's death?' John slammed his hands angrily on the desk and stood, this time leaning over the edge of the desk toward Mycroft.

'I am blaming you for not trying to prevent his second and actual death!'

'STOP!' Molly yelled.

Both John and Mycroft stood up straight and their gazes whipped to her. She remained calm, however, simply telling them to sit down again.

'Moriarty contacted me when he first captured Sherlock after his fall, and one of his men called me and told me a riddle. I had to solve three riddles, luckily two of them I had Sherlock's help on.' She saw John's face go funny and asked, 'What is it?'

'He sent me letters, letters that didn't make sense. Well, not until now. Now I understand that they are riddles, sent by Moriarty. What does that mean, though?' He met Molly's gaze, 'Was I supposed to try and save him earlier?'

Molly shook her head, 'Let me see them.'

John pulled the stack of letters out of his pocket, thankful that he had thought to bring them when he decided to come and visit Mycroft. He handed them to Molly, who shuffled through the envelopes.

'These aren't open?' She questioned when she reached the second half of the letters.

John shook his head. 'No, after a while, I thought that because I didn't understand the first few, that it was a waste of time to open them and look at them.'

Mycroft, who had been silent all this time, piped up. 'What do they say, Molly?'

Molly opened the first unopened letter and pulled out the piece of paper inside. She began reading aloud, 'Dr. Watson, surely by now you've realized that these letters are gibberish unless you know what the line at the bottom is. I'll give you a hint.

-JM'

Molly squinted her eyes at the random letters at the bottom of the page. 'What is this? Painters in Pittsburgh lucky ducks are allowed lucid movements rifts are not allowed but falling isn't flying?' What's that supposed to mean?'

'That's the problem,' John said, 'I have no idea. I didn't get that far, but if you look, the other four that I did open have the same gibberish at the bottom.'

Molly responded by opening the four opened envelopes and reading the bottoms. 'PDUFK, BDozenxpairxmeoverincompletetrioaddtwoboys, edzabycxah iagn gqprxrexrewvn hyposgw treuacrhetryluie eisavxt eppvtneeyrony nxrohtssoe (x100)?' She opened the other two, '60 even, butterflies on many beds.'

'See? They make absolutely no sense whatsoever.' John said.

'I think we could figure them out together. We must.' Mycroft cut in. 'It may be the only way to save Sherlock.'

Molly took her seat again and began to study the letters, looking for a clue as to the meaning of the code. John hovered over he shoulder and read the letter. Mycroft reached for one of the other letters and sat down at his own desk, reading it.

**Hello Chickadees! Happy unbirthday to all of you! I have presented you with one of two remaining riddles (except these two are codes, not riddles). I am allowing you to guess in your reviews, and I will write a special one-shot dedicated to and based on the storyline of choice from the first person to guess either code. The next one will be introduced in the next chapter and the first code will be answered in the next, and the second code in the next, unless I decide to give you another chapter to contemplate the answers. You would be proud to know that I outlined the remaining chapters and there are 29 chapters planned, but again, if I add an extra chapter, do the math...that makes 30!**

**Get riddling!**

**Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	25. Chapter 25

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

** I present to you...code number 2.**

Chapter 25

Sherlock stood, watching out the window, of his new flat down the hall from Francisco. He held his violin in his left hand and his bow in his right, but he didn't play. He didn't move to raise the bow he just stood there, thinking. Thinking of John, of Lestrade, of Molly, but most of all, he was thinking of Moriarty. He was thinking of the games, of the codes and the riddles. He was wondering when Moriarty would contact him next.

As if on cue, his mobile phone buzzed from the table behind him. He set his violin and bow down carefully and jumped onto the couch, grabbing his phone.

_Hello, darling! Open the door, would you?_

_JM_

Sherlock looked to the door. He couldn't hear anyone, but he could see the shadow of two shoes standing in front of the door. He stood cautiously from the sofa, placing his feet as silently as possible, approaching the door. He looked through the peephole, seeing what he expected to see, and opened the door.

Jim Moriarty stood right outside of the door, hands in pockets, creepy smile spread across his face, looking as laid-back and content as usual. Sherlock took a step back and gestured for the criminal to enter, closing the door behind him. He watched as Moriarty sat where he had a second ago, glancing around the flat with judgemental eyes.

'It's definitely a bit shabbier than the other flat. Quite a bit _emptier_, too.' Moriarty said, emphasizing the word emptier. It was jab at John not being with him, Sherlock knew.

'How did you know where I was?' Sherlock asked, taking a seat in the chair opposite Moriarty.

'Same way I knew you were in that stupid cabin in the woods. I have people watching you. Sebby was my man there.' He smiled, relishing the little twitch Sherlock's lip gave at the mention of Sebastian Moran.

'Who, if I may ask, is your 'man' here?' He asked sarcastically.

Moriarty shifted in his seat, crossing his legs and smiling wider. 'You know your little friend down the hall? Francisco, is it?' Sherlock straightened, becoming angry. 'It's amazing what he would do for money.'

Sherlock snarled at the psychopath across from him. 'How is it that you can get simple people to follow you?' He leaned forward. 'It makes absolutely no sense.'

'Of course it wouldn't make sense to you, Sherlock, you have no one to protect. Francisco has an adorable daughter in America. She lives with her mother, but Francisco still provides for her however he can, even if it means telling a maniac where his friend is at all times.'

Sherlock sat back.

'But you, you have no one to protect; you have no one you love enough to commit a crime.' His smile contorted into a smirk, 'you know who I could get to work for me incredibly easily?'

Sherlock gave him the 'Go ahead, but I don't care' look.

'John Watson.'

There was a moment's pause before Sherlock sat forward again, glaring at Moriarty, 'He would never do that.' Another pause, 'Not to me.'

Moriarty laughed long and hard at that. When he had calmed and the tears had stopped pooling in his eyes he looked back at the clueless Sherlock, immense amusement twinkling in his brown eyes. 'He would do that _for _you.' At the confused look he got, 'you are so dense, Sherlock!'

Another snarl and twitch from Sherlock. _You would care if they thought you were stupid, or wrong._ John's words rang through Sherlock's mind.

'You're blind to the people who lived in your flat!' Moriarty laughed again. 'Please tell me you're not completely stupid. He loves you!'

The change in Sherlock's face was drastic.

'When he came back from the army, from absolute Hell, you gave him not only a place to live, but a life that would satisfy his need for adrenaline and adventure, and you didn't leave him alone. That's what he fears, can't you see?' Sherlock looked devastated, so Moriarty continued. 'When you fell, he thought he was alone. He tried to kill himself. Twice!' Sherlock's lip trembled. 'He tried to shoot himself the first time, but luckily there were no bullets in his gun, and Mrs. Hudson had come upstairs just then. The second time, just this month, he tried to drink himself to death. You saw him not long after, it had ended in a bar fight where he'd been taught a lesson, and hasn't had a drink since. He misses you, Sherlock, and you're an idiot for not seeing-'

'Stop!' Sherlock begged. He dropped his head into his hands to wipe the sweat and tears off of his face and to refresh his mind. 'Stop. That's not why you're here.'

'You do have a soft side.' Moriarty said with a chuckle. 'But you are right. I am here to give you your riddle.'

Sherlock sat up straight again, recomposed. 'And the deal is, if I solve your riddle, you spare my life.'

Moriarty nodded. 'And Molly's.' He stopped, 'Unless, of course, you don't actually care for her, you're just bluffing.'

Sherlock didn't really want to answer, but he shook his head. 'She is helpful and a good friend.'

'You mean a good tool?'

Sherlock looked ashamed for a tiny fraction of a second, but didn't let Moriarty see it. He shook his head again. 'What kind of riddle is this?'

'It's a code, actually. It's sort of a tricky one, though, nothing simple. Something…official-looking.' Sherlock furrowed his brow. 'It might just be a stolen code method from the government. Nothing serious.' Moriarty reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small envelope. He handed it to Sherlock, who took it and thoroughly examined it. It felt light.

'What's at stake if I can't solve it in time?' Sherlock held the envelope up to the light. It only looked like one piece of paper. When Moriarty didn't answer right away, he looked over at the couch.

Moriarty thought. 'Let's just say it'll have a massive effect on the people.' Sherlock went back to examining the envelope. 'Well, I'd better be off. Good to see you, Sherlock. It's always nice to know that you're alive.' This last statement was said with a hint of sarcasm. Moriarty got up and showed himself out. From the door, he called, 'Good luck, Sherlock Holmes.' And disappeared out the door.

Sherlock was too busy with this new task to notice. He opened the envelope, finally satisfied with his inspection. Inside was precisely what he had expected, a simple piece of paper. He threw the envelope onto the floor and perched on his chair before unfolding the piece of paper.

95186091185858193439032239893619780466593808859126 9193803882793823908289

17KIPPENHAHN, HOLMES.

Sherlock stared at the numbers for some time. Then he reached for a pen and paper and his phone and began searching.

**Hello again! I know this is a much shorter chapter than the last one, but I have given you all the second code. It is a bit trickier than the first one, which if you didn't notice, there are six different codes, some harder than others. This one, however, is actually a government code. Can you crack it? I've only had one attempt so far! Come on, where are my decoders?**

**Get riddling!**

**Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	26. Chapter 26

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

** Here is the solution to Code No. 1~**

Chapter 26

Mycroft, Molly, and John were still at Mycroft's office at 18:30. They were lying, sitting, sprawled wherever there was room, each with pencil and paper at hand. They had divvied out the codes, so each person had two to work on.

John was the closest to being done; he was lucky and had been given the Caesar's code, which he had solved in about an hour, PDUFK. JM was the key, so any J was changed to an M; any K was an N, and so on. The answer was MARCH. The other riddle was '60 even'. He couldn't think of what 60 could mean, until Molly suddenly gasped and he looked over.

'I finished my first!' She exclaimed. She held up the paper and read it off. 'B Dozen is just a Baker's dozen, times a pair, or two, times me, which is just one (because Moriarty is talking), over or divided by incomplete trio, so two, and add two boys, or just two. All of this together equals FIFTEEN.'

John thought about his. Mycroft commended Molly and tossed down a paper of his own. She read it over and handed it to John. 'Edzabycxah iagn gqprxrexrewvn hyposgw treuacrhetryluie eisavxt eppvtneeyrony nxrohtssoe (x100)'. The paper said that there were two letters in between each letter of the answer, so it comes out as each in green how turtle eat every nose. John chuckled at the stupidity. It was really hard to believe that Moriarty had written these. The next part said that the answer was an anagram of the actual answer, which was EIGHTEEN.

This was the code right before John's '60 even' one. He thought, what has 60 even things in it? Of course, minutes…oh! Hours! It would make sense because eighteen HOURS.

So far they had figured out -March 15, 18:00. That was less than 24 hours away! They still didn't know why that date and time were important.

Mycroft passed down the other paper and said, 'This one was a bit trickier, but Jim Moriarty has 11 letters in it. Every 11 letters in this sequence says PICADILLY.'

John nodded. Now they knew the place, but they didn't know why it was significant. Molly was still working on that part, or at least John hoped. Mycroft sat back in his chair and John took one of the ones in front of his desk.

John paused, then asked carefully, 'Mycroft, when did you find out Sherlock was alive?' He had hoped it was when Molly came to him because then he wouldn't be the only was who didn't know.

'I always knew.' Mycroft said quietly. 'I am his brother. Although we don't get along, he would tell me if something like this happened.'

John huffed. 'Am I the _only_ one who didn't know?'

'No,' Molly interjected. 'Lestrade didn't know, and Ms. Hudson still doesn't know.'

'Didn't?' John questioned Lestrade's status.

Molly nodded. 'When he found out, it was really funny. Sherlock and I were going to a cabin in the woods to hide from Moriarty and Lestrade met us just before. He punched Sherlock when he found out.' She smiled in his direction.

'I'm really just pissed that you knew and didn't tell me. I am his best friend, for God's sake! Why wouldn't he tell me? It makes no sense!'

Molly gave him a sad look. 'He was trying to save your life.'

'What?'

Mycroft continued Molly's thought, 'Moriarty told Sherlock if he didn't jump, he would kill you and Lestrade and Ms. Hudson. He jumped to keep you safe.'

'Wait, so when Moriarty found out Sherlock was still alive, why didn't he come and kill the three of us?'

'Because now he's interested in Sherlock's help, not destroying his name.' Molly said, still working on her code.

John quieted. Moriarty wanted Sherlock's help? He couldn't make Sherlock work for him, could he? Surely Sherlock was smarter than that.

Molly gasped. John jumped and Mycroft raised his head. 'What?' he asked.

'I figured out the last one. I was making it much harder than it actually is. It's a simple anagram. Butterflies on many beds.'

Mycroft and John's gazes met. BOMB.

Picadilly, March 15, 18:00, bomb.

Molly jumped up. 'That's tomorrow!' She said, shocked. 'There's going to be a bomb in Picadilly tomorrow! We have to do something!' She began pacing around the room. John stood and stopped her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

'It's going to be okay, Molly. We just need to figure out what to do.'

Mycroft rubbed his head. 'I can have extra security around the perimeter, and we can try to keep civilians from entering that area. Unfortunately, I think Sherlock is the one who has to do this.' John and Molly gave him confused looks. 'Well, Molly told me that Moriarty was testing Sherlock. John, I know you received these letters a while before Sherlock came back, but these are obviously connected. I believe this is a test for Sherlock, not for us.'

'Then why tell me?' John asked

Molly thought out loud, 'Moriarty thinks Sherlock can't do anything for himself. Sherlock doesn't agree. I'm positive this is Moriarty trying to prove that Sherlock is weak, without playing fair and telling Sherlock that others are involved.'

John sat on the arm of the chair nearest to him. 'That is not fair to Sherlock.' He shook his head and looked over at Mycroft. 'You can secure the perimeter, yes? So, if we stand by just to make sure Sherlock doesn't get hurt, he can disarm the bomb himself and we won't interfere.'

'Unless absolutely necessary.' Mycroft nodded in agreement.

'No!' Molly said. 'I'm not going to stand by and watch him try and fight off Moran, which is almost certainly going to happen, and try to disarm a bomb at the same time. I will do everything I can to help him. That does not include standing behind a building and waiting until he dies.'

'We won't wait until he dies, Molly.' Mycroft tries to assure her. John puts his arm on her shoulder again, but she pulls away and begins to head toward the door.

'If you two won't do anything, I'm going to find Sherlock and help him. Even if it means I get killed, I won't let him die.'

Mycroft nodded to John and he threw himself in front of the door, just as she reached for the handle. 'I can't let you do that.' Mycroft stood. 'John, I will be in touch with orders tomorrow morning. I need to go now and gather guards if we are to do this right.' John nodded and opened the door for Molly, who angrily stomped down the hall, not waiting for John, and disrupting the diplomats scattered around in silence. Once she was out of earshot, but still in eyesight, Mycroft turned to John, 'Make sure she doesn't do anything stupid, John. She may be intelligent, but she is emotional. She will get herself killed and if she does, her blood will be on our hands.'

John nodded and followed Molly outside. She was waiting inside a taxi for John to slip into the seat beside her. He leaned forward to tell the cabbie, '221b, please.' Then he sat back and watched Molly stare out the window all the way to his flat.

They both left the taxi and John paid the driver and opened the door. They climbed the stairs, and John set his key down on the counter and stood in the kitchen. Molly sat down in Sherlock's chair in the living room, sinking into it and relishing the smell that wafted up, old, chemical, but purely Sherlock. She would _not_ let him die tomorrow.

'I'm going to order in. What do you fell like eating for dinner?' John called from the kitchen. When no answer came, he panicked. He popped his head around the corner and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Molly, still there, awake, but glaring at him. 'Nothing?' She shrugged. 'Okay, Thai food it is.'

He placed the order and joined her in the living room, picking up a book from the bookshelf beside his own chair. Molly sat across from him, eyeing him, then the book, then the bookshelf, and John finally looked up and said, 'You know you can read one of them.' She jumped, obviously not expecting John to speak, and nodded, but she didn't get up to closely look at them until the doorbell rang and John ran down the stairs to get the food. When he came back up, Molly had picked up a small purple book called 'The Change Masters'. He had never read it; it was one of Sherlock's books, and had always seemed dry, just from the cover. However, Molly was reading and looked intent on the words. He set the food down and got two plates from the kitchen. Molly hadn't moved when he returned, in fact, she didn't move, all night. Even through dinner, she ate slowly and kept reading. Even when John fell asleep, trying to get comfortable in his chair, his own book forgotten to the side, Molly kept reading.

The next morning, when John woke, Molly was almost finished with the book. He looked at the clock. It read 9:46. He yawned and stretched, flinching and groaning when his back protested and tried to stay in a curled up position. 'Good book?' He asked, now a bit curious. He might have to read this one.

Molly nodded ever so slightly, but didn't speak. John sighed loudly and walked to the bathroom, cracking his neck and desperately needing a warm shower to soften the muscles there. He did, mostly standing still under the droplets of hot water that pelted down, but felt much better when he got out. He wrapped his dressing gown around himself after drying off and returned to the living room, where Molly had another book, Jane Eyre, cracked open and was still reading.

'Bronte.'

Molly looked up. 'What?'

'Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte.'

'Oh.' She looked back down. 'Yes, I was surprised to find it amongst the science and maths books on Sherlock's shelf. I've read it before, but I don't remember quite how it ends.'

'Well, don't spoil it for me when you get there.' John smiled when he saw the corners of her mouth curve up in her own amused smile.

'I won't.' She promised. John sat down with the newspaper this time, checking the clock again. 10:32. He read until 2:30, when his phone buzzed. He looked over to see Mycroft's name pop up on the Caller ID. He picked it up and answered.

'Hello?'

'John, it's Mycroft.'

'I guessed as much.' John said, he hadn't meant to sound sarcastic, but that's how it came out.

'I've assured our plan with the police force and the government. Picadilly will be blocked off to all citizens to make sure no one will be hurt, but this is Sherlock's job, and he must be the one to stop the bomb. Then, after the explosive is shut off, the police will come in and arrest Moriarty and anyone else who might be there.'

'Okay, I'll let Molly know.'

'Thank you John.' Mycroft hung up. John told Molly the message, then got up to get dressed.

When he came back, Molly was coming out of Sherlock's room. She stopped, and so did John. 'What are you doing?' He asked.

She had to think, 'I was just going in to see if there were any other books in his room. Didn't find anything interesting, though.'

John nodded, getting the slightest bit suspicious. He ignored the feeling and sat down. 3:09. They would report to Picadilly at 5:30 on the dot, and Mycroft would tell them where to hide out.

Molly still stood by the door of Sherlock's room. 'I'm going to use the loo.' She said suddenly.

'Okay?' John said, a bit of a question. He didn't need to know… Molly closed the door behind her and John could hear her rustling around in the bathroom.

Seventeen minutes later, he called, 'Molly?'

No answer. He stood and walked over to the door, 'Molly?' He asked again. Still nothing. He tried the door, but of course, she'd locked it. He reached up and felt along the top of the doorframe, but the key had disappeared. He sighed, and moved back to kick the door open. Sure enough, Molly was not inside. The window, however, was open.

'Dammit!' John exclaimed and ran back to his phone. He dialed Mycroft's number. 'Molly's gone. She escaped out the bathroom window.'

**And there you have it! There's danger in the air! I will admit, I am very upset that no one attempted the riddles. If I give you a clue, will you guess? The one Moriarty gave to Sherlock is different! PLEASE at least try!**

**Kippenhahn is a last name...Maybe 17 is a page number?... Anyway, there you are. I already have the next two chapters written out, and I have to say, they are pretty shocking, even to me, but I have a feeling you will all like them. Or maybe you'll hate them...**

**Get riddling!**

**Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	27. Chapter 27

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

**This chapter is quite a bit shorter.**

**And finally, the solution to Code No. 2~**

Chapter 27

_3:00_

Sherlock sat on the couch in his temporary flat, hands steepled under his nose, foot tapping, focused on the code in front of him.

95186860911858581934390322398936197804665938088591 269193803882793823908289

17KIPPENHAHN, HOLMES.

He had no idea where to start. He had tried to match up each number with a letter, but 1: he couldn't tell where the numbers were, and 2: he didn't know if it was A=1, B=2, etc. He was starting to panic, which was something that he didn't do often. He had thought about the last line, but couldn't make sense of it either.

17 KIPPENHAHN, HOLMES.

17 Kippenhahn? 17K Ippenhahn? He had no idea. His phone was currently charging, it had died just after he'd started to put numbers to letters. Kippenhahn? Was it a place? Was it a name? And what did '17' have to do with it? Oh! Maybe it was a page number? Maybe they were all page numbers or word numbers like in the Chinese case! But what book? Kippenhahn; maybe that was the author?

Sherlock jumped up and grabbed his phone. He searched 'Kippenhahn' and 'Code Breaking' and came up with a book called 'Code Breaking' by Rudolf Kippenhahn. Huh, imagine that.

He immediately stuffed his phone and the piece of paper with the code on it in his pocket and put on his coat and scarf, which he was incredibly glad to have back, and walked out the door, turning to lock it behind him. He wanted to keep his violin safe.

He hailed a taxi and told the cabbie to take him to the nearest library. Once there, he went straight to a computer and looked up the book. It took a while to find it, and by the time he had the book in hand and sat down at one of the tables, it was already 4:00.

95186860911858581934390322398936197804665938088591 269193803882793823908289

17KIPPENHAHN, HOLMES.

Page 17. There was a chart starting with 'subway' and going through the alphabet after that, the lines alternating between numbers and letters. He grimaced. Each number _was_ a letter, but this was not what he had expected. He read the page before, on the Klausen code, which entailed a secret six-letter word known only by the code maker and code breaker. In this case, the example was using 'subway'. Sherlock looked at his own code again. What was the six-letter word he was supposed to use? He thought of all of the words Moriarty might use.

_Angels, Tragic, Murder, Addict,_ he shuddered. _Afraid, Anguish, Danger, Kidnap…_As he thought of what words matched the character of Moriarty he placed each of these in his mind palace. When he reached Z and finished every possible six-letter word he could think of, he began to use each of these words and complete the chart step-by-step.

1. Start with a six-letter word. Sherlock started with ANGELS, recalling Moriarty's words from the roof on the ever-so-familiar day.

2. The six-letter word goes at the top, and each row below it continues the alphabet, not including the letters in the word, finished with a period and a slash for word seperation.

S

I

Q

X

Y Z . /

3. A, S, I, N, T, O, E, and R are the most common letters in the English language. Each of these letters are labeled with the numbers 0-7, going from the top right, down the column, and then row by row after that. The other letters are labeled with the numbers 80-99.

** S**

0 2 86 4 94 6

** I**

80 83 87 91 95 7

** Q**

81 84 88 5 96 98

** X**

1 3 89 92 97 99

** Y Z . /**

82 85 90 93

Sherlock studied the numbers based on this chart.

95186860911858581934390322398936197804665938088591 269193803882793823908289

H-R-G-G-A-F-R-Z-Z-J-/-E-T-.-T-N-N-T-Q-/-S-R-W-B-E- S-S-O-/-B-M-O-F-N-S-F-/-B-T-M-N-I-/-Y-T-.-Y-U

He guessed that was not it. He continued through most of the words in his mind palace, the walls of which were covered with papers with charts on them. After about 150 words, he stopped and thought about the code. Surely Moriarty would have given him a clue as to what word he needed. He read over the code a few more times before counting the letters. HOLMES. Holmes had six letters. It was worth a shot.

** S**

80 3 85 90 6 7

** G**

0 82 86 91 94 97

** Q**

1 83 87 5 95 98

** X**

2 4 88 92 96 99

** Y Z . /**

81 84 89 93

95186860911858581934390322398936197804665938088591 269193803882793823908289

P-I-C-C-A-D-I-L-L-Y-/-T-O-M-O-R-R-O-W-/-E-I-G-H-T- E-E-N-/-H-U-N-D-R-E-D-/-H-O-U-R-S-/-B-O-M-B-.

He stopped. Moriarty had given him the code yesterday. That meant the bomb was in Piccadilly today. He looked at his watch and gasped. 5:26. He needed to get to Piccadilly. He dialed Lestrade's phone number and when the DI answered, he said, 'Lestrade? I'm going to need you. Piccadilly, 25 minutes.

He left the library, replacing the book on the shelf first, and stepped outside to hail a taxi. He tried to wave down three different cabs, but none of them acknowledged him standing on the edge of the street. He groaned and glanced at his watch again. 5:31. He gave up on the taxis and began to run. He didn't know exactly how he could get from the library, but he knew in general where he was. He began to run along Charles II Street, panting. He turned on Regent and stopped to check the time. 5:35. 25 minutes before a bomb would go off in Piccadilly. He ran down Regent and turned left on Piccadilly. He could see the square up ahead and ran faster, determined that nothing would happen to anyone there.

However, when he arrived, he was surprised to see no one in the square.

Except Moriarty and Moran.

And a bomb.

**Hello again Chickadees! So, I have presented you with the second code's answer. Thank you all for the wonderful reviews for the last chapter! They are helping me to remember to post chapters!**

**Next chapter will be posted next week, but the next two will be a bit late because of piano camp, so I apologize in advance.**

**Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**

**edit: for anyone interested, I just uploaded a new story called 'Maintain Consciousness' Please check it out!**


	28. Chapter 28

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

Chapter 28

John met Mycroft right where he was asked to at 5:30. Mycroft told him that he was to stay here no matter what. They were currently trying to figure out what kind of explosive Moriarty was using so they could map out a minimum safe distance.

Mycroft didn't talk to John for long because he was busy trying to figure out how to keep his little brother safe, so John moved over to sit by another building to watch the scene. Currently, Moriarty and Moran (or so Molly had told him earlier) were sitting in the middle of Piccadilly Square, waiting. John looked down at his watch and took note of the time: 5:44, before looking back. He looked just in time to see Sherlock slowly approach the psychopath and his sidekick.

He signaled to Mycroft, who hushed his crew. They all watched as Sherlock began talking with the two men.

'Glad you could make it, Sherlock.' Moriarty said. He was perched on the steps in front of the statue of Eros. Moran was standing close by. Sherlock kept his distance, but approached the two men, still breathing heavily from the run. He snuck a look at his watch. 5:44. He watched Moriarty closely and Moran even closer. He didn't trust either, but Moran did the dirty work for Moriarty.

'I'll admit, I doubted you would get here on time. You seemed quite tired this morning after a night of no sleep.' He smirked. Moran snickered. Sherlock glared. 'Yet, here you are.'

'I am smarter than quite a few people give me credit for.' Sherlock retorted.

'I realize that. Now, let me ask you, what is your purpose in solving that riddle? Why are you here?' Moriarty squinted as he raised his gaze to Sherlock.

'What do you mean? I'm here to save innocent lives.' Sherlock said incredulously. That's why I do anything.'

'Liar.' Moriarty stood at that, stepping down to ground level. 'You do everything else because you'd get bored without it.' He shook his head for emphasis, 'Not this. Why did you come here?'

Sherlock looked down in confusion. 'Do I need a reason?'

Moriarty laughed. 'Yes, Sherlock, you need a reason. And you weren't bored this time. You were just getting accustomed to a life without cases every day. You were just getting settled down with Molly. I think she is why you're here.'

'What?' There was an attempt to hide the truth in Sherlock's voice.

Moriarty hissed. 'You know that if you fail, you die. That means you have to leave her. You know she loves you, even more now than ever before, and if you die, you'll leave her devastated. However, if you succeed, you have to – excuse me, you _get_ to work for me. You recognize that while I have no soul to send to Hell, I am not completely heartless and will let you visit her and bring her gifts. If you succeed, which you are determined to do, you can keep her safe and happy.'

Sherlock wanted to say something. He wanted to assure Moriarty he was wrong, that he was only doing this for himself, to prove that he could do this, but he couldn't get any sound out.

Moriarty cut in when Sherlock didn't respond. 'Sherlock, no matter what you try to tell yourself, you are completely human. You are not extraordinary. You are in love. With Molly Hooper.'

Sherlock shook his head, but Moran cleared his throat, attracting the attention of both geniuses.

'We have to proceed, sir.'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Moriarty nodded and stepped back. He sat down again and pointed to a duffel bag not fifteen yards away. 'See that?' Sherlock looked and nodded. 'That's the bomb. Very destructive. If you don't figure it out, we will all die.'

'And you're taking that risk with someone you doubted would be here?' Sherlock laughed.

'Yes, actually, I am. I may have doubted your code-solving skills, but I trust you in hand-to-hand combat, and you are very good at cheating.'

'Cheating?' Sherlock was really confused now. 'How am I cheating? And I never agreed to hand-to-hand.'

'I know.' Moriarty took another step back and smirked. 'Good luck disarming that bomb.'

Sherlock checked his watch again. 5:54. Where was Lestrade?

When he looked up, he barely had any time to prepare before Moran lunged, slamming his fist into the side of Sherlock's face.

Molly checked her watch 5:44. She stood outside of a store just next to Piccadilly and watched Sherlock approach the two awaiting men. She watched them talk, she watched from afar, John react to the discussion. She watched Sherlock take the first hit, and every one after that. She watched Mycroft try and stop John from jumping to Sherlock's rescue. She watched Lestrade approach the same Square and look around before trying to sneak into the square.

'Detective Inspector!' Moriarty greeted Lestrade, who didn't know he was there and jumped. 'How nice of you to show up! Sherlock, this is cheating.' He called over to Sherlock, who was being strangled by Moran, who obviously had the upper hand. Moran was buff, though shorter than Sherlock, but he definitely had more muscle. Sherlock was skinny, skinnier than before his fall, due to lack of appetite and lots more exercise recently.

John was trying to get out to Sherlock when he saw Lestrade in the square. He shrank back into his corner, just thankful there was someone there who could help Sherlock. He was hurt that it wasn't him, though. He should be taking care of Sherlock. He should be stopping bad guys with him. He watched, feeling helpless.

Lestrade was focused on Moriarty, making sure the criminal didn't attack him, but he spoke to Sherlock. 'What do you need me to do?' He called. 'I didn't actually know we would be fighting crime, so I have no backup.' He took a short glance over at Sherlock who was still struggling against Moran to get the upper hand.

'No, that's fine!' Sherlock choked out. 'I need you to start on that bomb over there!' He tried to point, but failed when the absence of his hand gave Moran the chance to wrap his arm around Sherlock's torso and throw him to the ground.

Lestrade looked around and saw the duffel bag. He dashed toward it, still aware of Moriarty's location. He unzipped the bag.

'Careful, Detective Inspector, you don't want to set it off _accidentally._' Moriarty taunted. Lestrade took more care as he lifted the top away to reveal a surprisingly small explosive device. There was a timer set on top, ticking down. The current time left was three minutes and fourteen seconds. He inhaled sharply and looked around the outside of the device for any wires or traps.

He was so focused on the bomb that he didn't see Moriarty walk around to stand behind him, facing Sherlock.

'Sherlock! I warned you I couldn't have you being helped. This is what happens when you don't follow my rules!' He sang. Sherlock looked up from the ground, and Moran stopped punching him long enough to see Moriarty pull a gun from his pocket and point it behind him at Lestrade's head.

'Greg!' Sherlock, Lestrade, and Moriarty all turned to see Molly standing in between two buildings, looking intense and shocked. Moriarty smiled. Molly screamed. Sherlock shouted, 'NO!' Lestrade fell to the ground, a small bullet hole in his back beginning to weep.

From the other side of the square, John's mind was whirling. Sherlock knew he couldn't beat Moran. John watched Lestrade get shot by a horrible, evil man, but he was the most surprised to see Molly, standing so close to it all. She slowly walked toward the duffel bag. He knew what she was doing. She was going to shut off the bomb, or at least attempt to. He ignored Mycroft's second attempt to stop him and stood from his position, reaching behind him to pull his own gun from his belt. He stepped into the arena and pointed his gun directly at Moriarty's head.

'Stop.' He ordered. Moriarty laughed.

'Sherlock, you have failed in many ways! You have two minutes to get rid of the most obvious danger, and you claimed you could do it alone. Yet here we are…all five of us. Well, six, if you'd count dead men.'

Sherlock saw that Moran was still holding him down, but not paying attention to him, and took the opportunity to bring his fist up under Moran's chin. The man groaned and stumbled back, giving Sherlock the chance to grab his arm and wrap it around his back, breaking it. Moran screamed in pain.

Moriarty smiled. He took his gun and pointed it toward Sherlock, who was surprised himself by Moran pulling a knife and twisting Sherlock to hold it against his throat. 'Go ahead, John, shoot me. But you know in the time it takes for that bullet to reach me, I have time to pull this trigger. Good luck keeping Sherlock alive.'

John watched as Sherlock struggled against Moran and sputtered, 'John, it's okay. Kill him! The world would be so much better without us both!'

John shook his head. 'I can't.'

'You are so weak!' Sherlock shouted. He could feel the blade pressed firmly up against his throat. 'I don't matter! Kill his and spare the world the lost lives he has caused! Think of Lestrade!'

John lowered his gun, shaking his head, and approaching the psychopath directly in front of him. He stood so that their faces were equal, just inches apart, noticing Moriarty drop his own gun hand. He glared into the man's eyes. 'You may be a criminal and completely insane, but I won't kill you if it means risking that man's life. He is greater than you could _ever_ be. He is smarter and stronger, and taller, both physically and morally. You are a pathetic piece of shit. Have fun in Hell.'

For the first time, John saw Moriarty confused. He smiled his own deviant smile and pulled the trigger.

Moriarty stumbled back, surprised. His eyes widened and he dropped his gun and brought both hands to his stomach, where his Westwood suit was becoming drenched with blood. His hands pressed against the wound, causing more blood to gush out. He dropped to his knees, unwilling to look John in the eye as he withered away. He did, however, look over at Sherlock, who was watching in just as much shock, as his nemesis fell before him.

Moriarty uttered one last word as he fell, face-first, into the asphalt. 'Sentiment.'

John stared at the body on the ground, unmoving, eyes unseeing. Moran was frozen where he stood, arms becoming slack, knife no longer intent on Sherlock's neck. When Sherlock felt his attacker weaken, he stepped back on Moran's instep and brought his arms back behind his back, paralyzing the hit man.

'Sherlock! I can't do this!' Molly cried from in front of the bag. She was watching the timer count: 30, 29, 28, 27, pleading with God, with anyone to show her how to disarm it. Sherlock was too busy trying to keep the assassin, who was aware of the situation again, from stuggling and gaining the upper hand again, and John was still frozen, speechless above Moriarty.

When there was no answer, Molly studied the bomb. On the outer shell there were three noticeable things. There was the timer, of course (23, 22, 21), there was a panel of wires, and there was a red button. It was a small red button, and Molly was conflicted over whether that would automatically set it off, or if it would shut it off.

_14, 13, 12…_

She was panicking, her hands becoming shaky, her breath increasing.

_8, 7, 6…_

'What do I do?!' She screamed.

_4, 3, 2…_

She jammed her hand into the panel of wires and ripped them out, bracing herself for an explosion, but instead hearing the beeping of the timer stop.

Sherlock whispered, loud enough for her to hear, 'Amazing…'

Immediately, Mycroft and his posse of elite British soldiers and whatnot gathered around the smaller group, cuffing Moran, retrieving Moriarty's body, and carefully picking up the bomb.

Molly turned her attention to Lestrade, who was coughing quietly, eyes glazed over, but still alive. She placed her hands on his cheeks and pointed his face toward her own. 'Stay with me, Greg!' She used one hand to brush the tear creeping out of his eye away, and the other was placed on his chest. She was trying to lift his head to place it on her lap, but paramedics came to fetch his body away before she could say or do anything else.

She stayed crouched on the ground, crying, sobbing, bawling salty tears into the small puddle of Lestrade's blood. She felt something fall around her shoulders and looked up to see Sherlock drape an orange blanket over her back before he knelt in front of her. She threw her arms around his neck, startling him, but soon enough, he returned the comfort and wrapped his own arms around her. This whole idea of going back to 'pre-death Sherlock' was not working out well.

'You saved the day, Molly.' He whispered into her hair.

She sobbed harder.

**Okay, don't hate me. All will be explained. But in 2 weeks...**

**Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	29. Chapter 29

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

**Hello again, chickadees!**

Chapter 29

_2 hours later_

Molly sat beside John, who was still shell-shocked by killing the most dangerous criminal mastermind in the world. She rubbed his back while staring at the white hospital walls in front of her. Sherlock occasionally blocked her view of the wall on the path he paced, over and over again. He was still wearing his black coat, which Molly couldn't help watching as it swished in front of her wall patch.

Lestrade had been in the ER for almost 90 minutes now, and Molly was getting worried. They should have patched him up by now. She could only imagine how Sherlock and John were feeling. They were, after all, much closer to Lestrade than she was.

John was thinking of Lestrade, it was true, but he wasn't remembering him fondly. He was remembering the shot. He should have been there to save him. He probably could have stopped him from getting shot, too. It wasn't fair, it was his fault. He was thankful for the friendship, though. Lestrade had been there to help when Sherlock was having trouble, or was bored, or had a danger night.

Sherlock was thinking of the first time he met Lestrade. He was much younger, only about 19 or so, when Lestrade had found him on the street, shaggy, high, and definitely close to death, or worse. Lestrade had actually arrested him for possession. Once at the station, Sherlock had caught glimpses of evidence from a current case. He had offered some advice and Lestrade had eventually let him off the hook, as long as he went through rehabilitation. Sherlock had agreed. Now, he was the only Consulting Detective in the world, working for Scotland Yard, not completely drug-free, but not addicted anymore. Lestrade had been a lot like an older brother to him, not like Mycroft, who had ridiculed him every chance he got. Instead, Lestrade encouraged him and complimented him every chance he got (just enough to keep his confidence, but never enough to boost his ego). Sherlock was incredulously grateful to the DI for that.

A few minutes later, a doctor emerged from the ER, a distraught expression on his face. Molly and John stood, and Sherlock stopped pacing, but did not acknowledge the doctor.

'Is he alright?' Molly couldn't help but ask.

The doctor sighed. 'He's lost too much blood, and the bullet did substantial damage to his left lung, his spine and to the tissue around that area. Basically the bullet stretched everything out so much that it can't function anymore. Besides that, the bullet is lodged in the muscle tissue and pulling it out would cause even more drastic damage.' When Molly began to cry and sat back on the bench, the doctor offered his condolences. 'I'm sorry,' He said sadly. 'He's asked to see each of you.' When Molly stood back up and John took a step forward, the doctor held up his hand. 'Individually.'

John nodded, 'Molly, you go ahead.'

She thanked him as she passed him. Sherlock still had his back turned when she left.

Once inside, Molly regretted coming in. Lestrade looked horrible. He had tubes hooked up everywhere, life support, and monitors beeping on every side. He could barely open his eyes, but he noticed when she came in.

'Molly,' he smiled. 'How are you?'

Molly managed to choke out, 'Fine.' Before the tears began to fall again. He motioned for her to come closer. She did, kneeling by the side of his bed, and he grasped her hand. 'You are beautiful, you know that?' She laughed through her tears, covering his hand with her own to sandwich his hand between hers. 'I never doubted you were beautiful, I just doubted that you knew it. You are funny, smart, and independent. I'm truly blessed to have known you. And so is Sherlock, no matter what the bloody idiot says.' Molly broke, bending her head over their hands and dampening the sheets with her tears. 'Hey, hey,' Lestrade reached under her chin to bring her face up. 'It's okay.' She tried to smile. 'I lived a good life.' She nodded. For a few more minutes, she stayed by his bedside, holding his hand silently. When the doctor came in to get her, John was right behind.

Molly left just as John approached the bed. She walked back into the hallway to see Sherlock sitting on the bench. He didn't look up when she joined him. His face was pensive, as if he was preparing himself for what was to come.

Back with Lestrade, John stood where Molly had second earlier. Lestrade outstretched his hand, to shake John's this time. John obliged. He spoke before Lestrade could. 'Thank you.'

Lestrade shook his head. 'No, thank you.' John gave him a look that said, _for what?_ 'For making Sherlock into a better man. You taught him some very valuable life lessons, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

John stuffed his hands in his pockets, sheepish for a second. Then he straightened. 'I am sorry though.' Lestrade gave him the same confused look. 'I could have stopped Moriarty. I could have shot him multiple times in our numerous encounters. I could have even shot him then, but I didn't. And you're dying because of me.'

'That is not true, John Watson.' Lestrade was angry. 'This is no one's fault but Moriarty's. He is the one who pulled the trigger. It was not you –'

'Exactly! I didn't pull the trigger when I could have!'

'No!' Lestrade tried to sit up, collapsing into a coughing fit in the process. When he had stopped, he continued, his voice sounding much weaker. 'You didn't pull the trigger because you didn't need to. You are strong, John. You are wise, wiser than everyone else I know. You did not make a mistake. I admire you. I respect you, and I know that every choice you make is for the best.' With that, John could say nothing else, and thank Lestrade before retreating back into the hallway.

When John came out, Sherlock stood, taking a deep breath before entering the hospital room. He entered slowly and kept to the edge of the room. Lestrade laughed. 'Please, Sherlock. I'm not going to hit you.'

'I don't see how you could, in your current state.' Sherlock deadpanned.

Lestrade nodded. 'Yeah, I guess I'm really not good for anything now, am I?' Sherlock let a small smile slip across his face.

They were silent for a few seconds. Then Sherlock spoke up 'I want to thank you.'

'No need.'

'Yes, there is a need. You gave me everything I have today.' Sherlock said. He took a step toward Lestrade's bedside, then retreated again about half that distance. 'I mean, without you, I would be high on the street right now, probably looking for a whore to chat up and get drunk with. I'd wake up weak and exhausted with no idea where I was, and the day would go the same as before.' He did the same thing: one step forward, half a pace back. 'I am only here because you decided it would be good to give me a chance.'

'Well, I didn't give you your intellect, and that's truly what saved you.' Lestrade tried to be humble, but Sherlock protested.

'You are like a father to me. Not quite old enough,' he threw in a note of humor, 'but you have cared for me like my father never did.'

'Sherlock, you taught me so much more than you think, so much more than I taught you.'

'Not true.'

'Completely true.' Lestrade coughed, wheezing a bit on the other side. 'Before me' every breath was a struggle, 'stands a great man.' Sherlock swallowed back the tears that welled up. 'And I want you to know' a gasp, 'that' another, more violent breath, 'that I look up to you' another, 'and I am' another, 'I am –'

The beeping startled Sherlock when he found himself somehow all the way to the end of the bed, gripping the end with both hands, so hard that his knuckles turned white. The monitors screamed, the lines moved no more, and everything began to play in slow motion as Sherlock backed away from the bed, falling against the wall and slipping down to curl up, arms around his knees. Doctors and nurses rushed in to try and revive him, but nothing worked. Sherlock finally stood, moving into the hallway, his brain blank and motionless. John was holding Molly on the bench as she cried. He ignored them and went straight out the front door, hailing a taxi and heading to his temporary flat.

**So, I'm back! Sorry it took so long to update, but I literally_ just_ got back, so you guys are most definitely my first priority. Please don't hate me too much, something bad had to happen... Anyways: PENULTIMATE chapter! The next chapter is the last one! :(**

**Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


	30. Chapter 30

**Welcome!**

**To those of you who are reading for the first time, Welcome! To those of you who are reading for the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time, Welcome back. To those of you who are reading for the some-random-number-greater-than-eighth time, thank you so much. Your obsession is appreciated.**

**Hello again, chickadees!**

Chapter 30

_2 months later_

When the doorbell rang, Sherlock was already by the door to answer it. He welcomed Molly in and took her coat and hung it up behind him on the coat rack. He turned around to hug her and then held her at a distance to admire the new black strapless dress she had on. He smiled. 'Gorgeous.' He was wearing his own dapper outfit: familiar black suit with that bloody purple shirt that seemed to show the outline of every muscle on his chest. Molly could feel her ears burning as he showed her upstairs.

John was fetching drinks for him and Mary, his new girlfriend (who Sherlock actually liked; she was smarter than the other idiots John had dated), when Molly popped in. He smiled and complimented her dress as well. Molly introduced herself to Mary and took a seat on the couch.

When Sherlock had announced he was moving back in last month, John had insisted on having a party to celebrate. He had assured Sherlock it would be small party to get him to agree. It was kind of an improvised party; John had planned it in its entirety the day before. Mary had agreed immediately and Molly had to suddenly take off work for the night, but was glad to attend.

Sherlock joined her on the couch, keeping some distance in between them. He held out a glass of red wine to her and she thanked him and took a sip.

'How are you?' Sherlock asked.

Molly knew exactly what he was referring to. Lestrade's funeral had been the previous week. It had been small, definitely not the best of funerals, but it had been endearing and emotional to say the least. The entire case had been closed the day before; Moriarty's body was taken care of, Sebastian was in government custody, guilty of crimes in over 45 countries, and the rest of the network was being taken care of.

Molly pulled an unconvincing smile and shrugged. 'I'm fine, I guess.'

'So, you've just been working then?' Sherlock tried to start a different conversation, as John and Mary had moved into the kitchen with Ms. Hudson.

Molly turned to face him, shrinking the distance between them and accidentally brushing his knee with her own. 'Sorry,' she said quietly. 'Yes, just working since Greg, um…' She trailed off.

Sherlock nodded. 'I'm sorry, I know it's a bit of a sensitive subject.'

Molly shook her head. 'It's fine. What have you been up to?' She took another sip.

'You mean other than moving back in?' Molly nodded. 'Trying to bribe the new Detective Inspector to let me in on the cases. That hasn't gone so well. I've been escaping the grasp of my brother quite a bit easier lately. Maybe he's finally given up and realized I don't actually like him.' Molly laughed. She took another sip.

'How are things with you and John?' She asked, softer than the other questions.

Sherlock knew that she was referring to his anger toward Sherlock. 'He's still not his old self, but I'm still not my old self. We've had a few arguments, but I think it's for the better.' He nodded and looked over to see her smiling. She looked down at the glass in her hand.

Sherlock didn't know what to say next. He knew the gist of what he wanted to express, but didn't know how to put it into words without making Molly feel weird. He puzzled over this for a while and eventually gave up and just said it plainly, 'How do you feel about dinner?'

Molly froze, glass halfway to her lips, taken aback by his question. She smiled coyly and decided to play hard-to-get. 'Well, in general, I think it's a good idea.'

'Really?' It was Sherlock's turn to freeze.

'Yes, of course! I think it's a very important meal and it's healthy. There are lots of options and you can eat alone or with someone else. It's a perfectly normal addition to an everyday routine.' She started to laugh at Sherlock's bewildered face and could not stop laughing until Sherlock started to laugh as well, finally realizing she was kidding.

When they had calmed down, Sherlock said, 'No, I mean _dinner_. You, me, somewhere nice to eat, food, talking, etcetera.' He tried to anticipate her reaction.

Molly found herself surprisingly calm, considering Sherlock was asking her the one question she had been trying to get him to ask her for years and years. She finally smiled and finished her glass of wine. 'I would love that.'

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief to himself. He hadn't been sure if she would have laughed at him or dumped her wine on him, or shoved him down the stairs. He sat back, resting his back against the cushion of the couch and made no attempt to move his knee, which was still pressed up against Molly's.

'Why?'

Molly's question caught him off guard again. He hadn't expected her to question his motives; he had just expected her to go with it. After all, this was what she had wanted for quite a while. 'Why what?'

'Why do you want to take _me_ to _dinner_?' She emphasized both words. She was asking two questions and wanted an answer for both.

Sherlock noticed this. 'Well, to answer both, you're a hero and I thought it might be nice to take you somewhere to celebrate since I haven't exactly had time to yet.'

'A hero?' Molly set her empty glass on the table. 'Me? A hero? I doubt that.'

Sherlock sighed. 'You are a hero. Let me point out that even if John hadn't killed Moriarty, we would still have him in custody, thanks to the invading nature of my brother, and yet, if you hadn't disarmed that bomb, none of us would be here. Except Mary and Ms. Hudson.' He heard the two and John laughing in the kitchen.

Molly lowered her head. 'Oh that.'

'How did you know how to shut it off?' Sherlock asked curiously, scooting just the slightest bit closer to her to hear the answer.

Molly shook her head. 'I'm not sure. I just reacted as quickly as I could and did the first thing that came to mind. I'm very lucky it worked.'

Sherlock leaned forward, bringing his face within inches of Molly's. 'We are all lucky.' He swallowed when she turned and noticed his face was so close to her own. She blushed and her lips slightly parted. Sherlock didn't need to reach for her wrist to tell her pulse was up.

John peeked his head into the room where they sat together on the couch, planning to ask if he could get them anything, but when he saw the look on Sherlock's face and the reaction on Molly's, he retreated back into the kitchen, a huge smile on his face. When Mary asked what he was smiling about, he shook his head and chuckled to himself.

'Where would this dinner be and when?' Molly said, her voice full of flirtation and a hint of sexiness. She smiled as Sherlock's eyes flicked to her mouth.

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to her and she looked away from his face for a second to unfold and read the paper. Sherlock didn't move away, instead watching her eyebrows furrow and her mouth purse while she chewed on her lip.

'What's this?' She asked, bringing her gaze back up to Sherlock's. 'It's just a bunch of letters. It doesn't make sense.'

Sherlock smiled. 'Solve me a riddle,' he leaned in closer, 'Molly Hooper.' He placed his lips on hers. Molly blindly reached over to put the paper beside her empty wine glass and kissed him back.

John peeked his head out again and chuckled. He turned his attention back to Mary and Ms. Hudson, who were both giving him strange looks. He shook his head for the second time and kept chuckling to himself.

**Alrighty, final chapter! Thank you ALL for reading this story, you all have been a HUGE support through it, and you definitely gave me the perseverance to finish it! Hopefully this was a happy ending for you all, I do love my Sherlolly! Anyways, thank you all!**

**I also want you all to know that I am absolutely touched and sincerely chuffed by your reviews. Just the fact that I've gotten over 150 reviews is amazing.**

**Thanks for reading! Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Feelings? Hate Mail? Suggestions? Frustration? Anger? Death Threats? Advice? Anything? Review!**


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